


Crimson & Obscene

by BookishAngel (DisnerdingAvenger)



Series: Bright Young Things [1]
Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (and it was a dark and stormy night...), (because Tennant!Crowley is better), A Day At The Races, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Flirting to a Jazz Soundtrack, Fluff and Humor, Human!Crowley, M/M, Obligatory backstory, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Roaring Twenties, TW: smut, i.e. probably no one will read this but I needed to write it to soothe my soul, i.e. the obligatory Bright Young Things rewrite where Miles gets a happy ending, life starts anew, soft opera stuff, we're just gonna say Ginger Littlejohn doesn't exist in this AU, welcome to new york, yes folks you guessed it: it's a shameless crossover AU!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 10:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18050798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisnerdingAvenger/pseuds/BookishAngel
Summary: Behold: a Bright Young Things AU where everything is the same but with one key difference: they DID all go to the Ritz for their after-party. While there, Miles Maitland meets a charming stranger with shockingly red hair...





	1. Let's Misbehave

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic can be blamed entirely upon the fact that the Bright Young Things canonically live in Mayfair; Crowley also lives in Mayfair; and I'm still upset that we never found out what happened to Miles. So, here goes nothing: a rewrite in which Miles falls for one Anthony J. Crowley instead of Tiger. Shenanigans shall follow...
> 
> NOTE: the song being played is "Let's Misbehave" by Irving Aaronson and His Commanders.

“Lottie will be closed. How about the Ritz?”

Adam Fenwick-Symes’ suggestion was addressed to his gaggle of wealthy misfit compadres and, like a bomb going off, the damp London street they were all walking down was instantly echoing with a string of complaints.

Miles Maitland, walking arm-in-arm with Agatha Runcible, objected most vehemently of all, exclaiming, “Oh, talk _sense_ , darling! Not while I’m dressed like _this_.”

Truthfully, it was a fair objection. All of them (save Adam, who had been misinformed) were dressed like they had just stepped out of an upper-class pajama party – which, in fairness, they essentially had – and it wasn’t exactly standard procedure to waltz into the Ritz wearing anything less than one’s best.

But, given that Adam asked, “Well, have any of you got a better idea?” to which no responses arose, they all wound up clustered around a table at the Ritz, anyway. Garishly dressed or not, they were still all renowned patrons (or the children of such, at the very least) and, as such, they were hardly going to be turned away.

_Oh, what could be the harm, really? **Surely** those beastly journalists have better things to do at two in the morning than loiter about every spot in town, just in case we **may** show up._

Such were the thoughts that ran through Miles’ head as they were all escorted to Nina Blount’s usual table and, after consuming around half a bottle of champagne all on his own, the possibility of ending up on the cover of the _Daily Herald_ was the very last thing on his mind.

“This is all too _dull_ ,” he harrumphed after draining the dregs of his champagne flute. Having already shed his fur cloak, he made a point of dropping his nightcap onto Adam’s head as he rose to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.

“Well, how do you propose we remedy the dullness?” Nina asked, amusedly batting at the fuzzy little ball at the end of the nightcap now poised upon Adam’s head, and Miles grinned not unlike a cat on the verge of purring.

“With _music,_ darling!” he professed, gesturing to the piano on the other side of the dining room which, at this time of night, was missing its usual pianist. “I have a strange longing to play something _crimson_ and _obscene_.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Adam asked, to which Agatha, already giddy at the prospect, promptly retorted, “What could be wiser?”

Winking at his adored partner-in-crime, Miles turned promptly on his heel and started forward for the piano – only to, in his tipsy haze, walk straight into a taller gentleman with a shock of red hair and a pair of oval sunglasses perched upon his nose, the lenses an even more brilliant shade of the colour.

“What was it he said about ‘crimson and obscene’?” Nina tittered back at the table while Miles, rather flustered by the sudden obstruction of his path, fluttered about.

“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, taking a small step back and attempting to straighten the other gentleman’s dinner jacket. “I _am_ clumsy. Do forgive me.”

“Perhaps,” the gentleman responded, clearly appraising Miles’ flamboyant blue attire while a slow smirk worked at his lips. “My forgiveness, however, is conditional.”

His eyes widening ever so slightly, both due to the stranger’s heady gaze and having first caught sight of his rather impressive cheekbones, Miles asked, “…oh?”

“Oh,” the red-haired man confirmed, not even bothering to hide his smirk at this point. “My forgiveness is contingent upon you telling me _why_ you ran into me like a bloodhound who’s just caught the scent of something delicious.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Miles squeaked at his choice of words, his usual drunken eloquence evidently having gone with the wind. _How terribly unfair._ His cheeks flushing a brighter shade of scarlet beneath the painted on rouge, he explained, “I was… well… _piano_.”

Pointing in the general direction of his end goal, which he had been so rudely dissuaded from, Miles glanced between the piano and the gentleman in question who, throughout their entire exchange, had yet to stop smirking. It was rather unnerving, in a strangely attractive sort of way. The only shift in his expression was the way that his eyes seemed to light up at Miles’ response.

“You play?” he asked and Miles nodded, absently smoothing the creases in his blue silk coat.

“I do,” he confirmed, hesitating before asking, “…do you?”

“I do,” was the gentleman’s response, and there was that _smirk_ again, even more present than before, “but I would _much_ rather hear _you_ play.”

“You would?” Miles asked, blinking several times. He didn’t have much time to dwell upon _why_ this gentleman might want to hear him play, for Agatha promptly cut in from their table a few feet away: “I know that _I_ would. What’s the holdup, darling? We were promised something crimson and obscene!”

Allowing her voice to snap him back to reality and out of the strange orbit that he seemed to have fallen into with a complete stranger, Miles cleared his throat, making a show of snapping his knuckles before completing the journey over to the piano, flipping the tails of his coat back before dropping down onto the bench and giving his fingers a waggle.

Playing a few charming notes on the piano to break the silence in the dining room, Miles flit his gaze from those of his friends to that of the attractive stranger, who was presently sipping from a wine glass and watching him intently – and not at _all_ subtly. A slow smirk of his own beginning to reclaim his features, Miles cleared his throat before shifting into a jazzier melody, his voice accompanying it a few bars in:

“ _We’re all alone; no chaperone can get our number. The world’s in slumber; let’s misbehave!_ ”

Back at the table, Nina exhaled giddily, grasping onto Adam’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Oh, I _love_ this one! You simply must dance with me, darling, you _must_.”

Adam, never one to deny Nina anything (aside from a stable marriage proposal), happily obliged and the two began to quickstep around the dining room’s mostly vacant tables while Agatha happily clapped along. Back at the piano, having added a few extra bars for the dancers’ benefit, Miles continued to sing:

“ _There’s something wild about you, child, that’s so contagious; let’s be outrageous! Let’s misbehave!_ ”

That particular lyric was directed at Agatha, his fellow wild-child for well over a decade, but the next portion of the song he slyly aimed at his charming stranger, the smirk at the corners of his lips growing.

“ _When Adam won Eve’s hand, he wouldn’t stand for teasing; he didn’t care about those apples out of season. They say that Spring means just one thing to little lovebirds; we’re not above birds; let’s misbehave!_ ”

To his immense pleasure, being equally unsubtle seemed to work wonders; the stranger had gravitated toward the piano and, when Miles’ voice melted away to allow the music to shine, his companion dropped down onto the bench beside him. Seconds later, his fingers were finding the tenor keys to accompany the music that Adam and Nina were still dancing to.

“You know, I pride myself on knowing everyone in this town who’s worth knowing, but I don’t believe I know you,” Miles mused as their hands, together, beat out a jolly melody, and his accompanist chuckled. Taking the sound as an invitation, Miles hinted, “I’d rather like to correct that.”

“Crowley,” the gentleman drawled as they continued to play, tossing Miles a glance over the top of his sunglasses. From this vantage point, Miles was able to see that, behind the red-tinted lenses, his eyes were brown – or, to be more accurate, _golden_ brown. _Gorgeous_ , the voice in his head insisted. _That’s what they are; **gorgeous.**_ “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Well, aren’t you mysterious?” Miles mused, grinning cheekily as he asked, “Won’t you tell me what the J stands for?”

“A man needs his secrets,” was Crowley’s reply, tossing Miles a grin of his own. “It’s what makes me so interesting. _Besides_ ,” he hummed, speeding up the tempo of the song, leaving Miles with no choice but to follow _his_ lead now, “All this fuss and you haven’t even told me _your_ name.”

“ _Oh!_ ”

Well, _that_ was new. There were certainly people in London whom he didn’t know, but there were very few who didn’t know _him_. He was one of Mr. Chatterbox’s favourite subjects in that beastly _Herald_ column. In fact, he appeared in it so prominently that people frequently knew him upon first glance as “Miles Malpractice” - the shoddy name that the column always gave him.

“I’m surprised you don’t already know it,” he justified a few seconds later, sheepishly explaining, “Those newspaper fiends seem to have nothing better to do than make up outlandish stories about me to sell copies.”

_Sure, the rumors were terrible and cruel – but a great deal of them **were** true…_

After playing a few more bars, Miles offered Crowley a smile, formerly introducing himself while they continued to hit all the right notes in perfect succession.

“You’ll have to excuse my poor manners; Miles Maitland. That’s my name, and do feel free to wear it out.”

“Perhaps I will,” Crowley vaguely mused before smirking, casting a glance toward the dancing couple as he added, “It’s been a pleasure, Miles Maitland.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” Miles countered, smirking right back as his fingers tickled the keys, “I do believe the pleasure has all been mine.”

Tossing Crowley a sly wink, his cat-like grin returning, Miles launched into the closing lyrics of the song, well aware of just how closely together they were sitting on the piano’s bench; he could feel the warmth radiating from where their arms touched.

“ _If you’d be just so sweet and only meet your fate, dear, it would be the great event of 1928, dear. Let’s misbehave!_ ”

Of course, when he went on to sing the final “ _let’s misbehave_ ” of the song, Miles hadn’t expected Crowley to echo those exact same words with a whisper in his ear, and he found himself blushing for the second time since their awkward meeting – only, this time, it was a pleasant blush. It was the blush of things to come.

As Agatha, Adam, and Nina all applauded their performance, Miles turned his full attention to his new acquaintance, asking, “Won’t you join us for a drink? They really do have the most _smashing_ wine selection here.”

By way of answering the question, Crowley picked up his glass from where he’d placed it on top of the piano, pointedly draining what was left in it before musing, “Well, would you look at that; I _am_ in need of a top-up.”

Properly smiling, Miles tapped Crowley’s nose with a blue-manicured finger before standing up and taking his arm, purposefully leading him back over to where his friends were gathered. A party’s after-party was always more fun with more people, after all – and when an impossibly handsome man flirts with you whilst accompanying you on the piano, you simply _cannot_ let him get away.

_One might even say he had suddenly developed a strange longing for something **else** crimson and obscene…_


	2. Let Them Eat Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Miles' birthday, and what's a birthday without two parties?

In London, before the Wars turned everyone’s world upside-down and inside-out all at once, there was a great divide between the city’s people. There was the divide between the rich and the poor, obviously, but the divide between Old Money and New Money was, possibly, even greater. You see, while the Old Money families would gladly give to charities and pose for front-page photographs proclaiming their generosity, they positively blanched at the idea of _New Money_ – i.e. poor people who managed to stop being poor and, in their eyes, were coming to steal all that they held dear.

( _Both figuratively and literally. It was perfectly commonplace, when New Money was expected at a party, to hide the good silver._ )

Miles Maitland and all of his posh friends came from Old Money families.

Anthony J. Crowley, who lived alone in his penthouse flat in upper Mayfair, was about as freshly minted as New Money could get.

His life began in a lowly state; born at the turn of the century, his parents, convicted of pickpocketing and prostitution, were both transported for life to Australia when he was four, leaving him at the mercy of the parish beadles who ran the local workhouse. He wallowed there, working his little fingers until they bled, for the next four years until, finally, opportunity struck.

As it so happened, he’d been too young to fully understand what his parents had done to get transported; all that A.J. had known was that they were gone and they were never coming back. So, you might find it rather ironic that, after falling upon a copy of Dickens’ _Oliver Twist_ that somebody had left on a bench in St. James’s Park, he took up where the Artful Dodger left off and became a world-class thief. It was a matter of survival, really; he wouldn’t have lived to see twenty-five if he stayed in the workhouse.

And truth be told, as far as illicit activities went, young A.J. was really quite good. He had nimble, delicate fingers that were perfect for slipping in and out of gentlemen’s pockets and ladies’ bags, and he had such a charming disposition that none of the shopkeepers he ripped off ever suspected that he was guilty of anything.

“ _It’s simple, really,_ ” he’d told the pawnbroker who he sold a set of nicked fish knives to when he was thirteen. “ _You go in once a week and buy a bagful of candy and they just assume you’re posh. Posh kids never get nabbed._ ”

Subsequently, much of Anthony’s life became about _really_ being posh, not just pretending. Sure, he’d never be one of those “bright young things” you always saw splashed over newspaper covers; you had to have a family whose reputation you could ruin to be one of Them. But he could be the next best thing.

Once again, opportunity came knocking around 1920 and its name was Prohibition. A ban on alcohol throughout the United States of America – one that would make all Americans desperate for it, even if they’d never touched the stuff before. People always want what they can’t have.

Thus, Crowley began to build his fortune; he struck up deals, using his carefully cultivated charm and wit, with several vineyards and breweries throughout London and its surrounding areas. He promised to smuggle their product into America, where it could be sold for a massively inflated price, in exchange for a sixty-percent profit margin.

With success, that margin grew from sixty-percent to seventy - to seventy-five - to eighty-five, until he had secured the funds to purchase his own vineyard in South Downs, the product from which he could hawk at a hundred-percent gain. After all, the wine didn’t need to age very long; to the booze starved Americans, it didn’t need to be good, it just needed to be… well, _booze_.

But Crowley knew that Prohibition wouldn’t last forever, and he’d grown tired of the constant sailing from England to America and back again. The journeys were always long and unpleasant, even after he’d gained enough money to take ocean liners instead of cargo ships. He was prone to seasickness, and if he wasn’t seasick then he was constantly feeling frozen, for the journey was never warm. He’d had quite enough of it all, perhaps to last him a lifetime. With enough money to pay underlings to do the unpleasant parts of the smuggling, he moved into his Mayfair flat and struck up a... business expansion of sorts.

Prohibition money was all well and good, but everyone knew the real fortune lay in the opium trade. The government really buckled down on the import and export of the substance following the first War, so that was the basket in which Crowley placed his eggs – and, by 1928, he was London’s premier drug connoisseur. After years of playing the Prohibition game, he knew all of the best (and most discreet) trade routes like the back of his hand. It was easy money, really, and the best part of it all? He barely had to lift a finger.

That was how he liked it because, while Crowley enjoyed the money and the lifestyle it allowed him, he wasn’t particularly fond of getting his hands dirty. Some people revelled in the shakedowns and other underworld activity but, to Crowley, it was all just business. A means to an end. A way to keep his pocketbook fat enough to enjoy high tea at the Ritz, the most expensive foreign wines, well-tailored suits, designer sunglasses, and sharp shoes.

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley liked to think, after enduring all he had and working his way up from nothing, that he had earned the title of “gentleman” - but London’s Old Money crowd had other feelings about him.

You see, nobody really _knew_ where Mr. Crowley, young as he was, had gotten so much money. One day he was a non-existent figure and the next he was strutting about Mayfair like he owned the place, his red hair a blight upon their subtle, proper, white marble world. All that anyone, even the most skilled of busybodies, knew about him was that he owned a vineyard in South Downs and that he oversaw a vast array of trade ships. There was never really an opportunity for them to weasel any further information out of him; for the most part, he kept to himself. He wasn’t like other New Money people who brazenly crashed Old Money parties like they had a right to be there – and no one, no matter how curious they were, intended to actually _invite_ him anywhere.

Nobody except, apparently, Miles Maitland.

After that first night at the Ritz, he became positively smitten with Crowley and had insisted, before they all departed in the wee hours of the morning, that Crowley come to his birthday party in a week’s time. It was terribly exclusive and all of the invitations had already been sent out months ago, but Miles saw to it himself that the newest member of their circle was invited _(without troubling his mother because she only would have caused a fuss over such a last minute change and, besides, it was all just a formality, really; the proper party would be at a secret location of Agatha’s choosing around midnight)_.

Yet, when the evening of the party arrived, he was nearly dithering – and Miles Maitland rarely dithered. Why would he? Up until this point, he’d always gotten everything he could possibly want. Only now he wanted Crowley, _desperately_ wanted him, and the flash-bastard wasn’t _there_.

Clad in a tightly tailored three-piece suit with a pearl vest, for his mother had insisted upon it being a black-tie event, Miles snatched a champagne flute off of a passing server’s tray with a gloved hand, walking back over to the settee where his friends were all gathered, similarly dressed; Adam was in a nearly identical suit, only his vest was a rich burgundy in order to match Nina’s dress, and Agatha had chosen a pearl number in order to match Miles. She had a white feather pinned in her hair and, disgruntled, Miles gave it a small bat with his free hand.

“Why isn’t he here?” he asked, dipping into his fourth glass of champagne since the party began an hour ago. In that space of time, he’d done several laps around the manor’s ballroom; his mother had seemed pleased, assuming he was mingling, when really he’d just been searching for Crowley. He _wanted_ Crowley.

 _And cake_. What he wouldn’t do for a piece of that seven-tier, red velvet, decadently frosted delight currently sitting in the kitchens, waiting to be brought up, but his mother had insisted that they not cut the cake until at least nine. _Nine_. How wretchedly cruel she was.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be here, darling; you just need to be patient,” Agatha did her best to reassure him. Perched on the arm of the settee next to Nina, who was nibbling on a strawberry dipped in sugar, Adam nodded in agreement.

“Patience is a virtue,” he mused, prompting Miles to roll his eyes and turn on his heel, plopping down onto the purple crushed velvet between Agatha and Nina.

“When have I _ever_ been virtuous, Adam, dear?” he quipped, taking another long pull from the glass, and Adam chuckled. He could hardly argue with _that_ point. After a moment, Miles sighed and muttered, “I _do_ so want him to come.”

“I pity him if he does,” said Nina, who tended to think people couldn’t hear her darker quips if she muttered them. People, however, always did. Adam was particularly well-versed in this area.

“Why on _Earth_ would you say something so ghastly? And on my _birthday!_ ” Miles asked, clearly offended – and, for once, he wasn’t being altogether dramatic. Even Adam felt he had cause to be hurt by Nina’s bluntness; there was a reason everyone used to call her “Nina Blunt” when he, Miles, and Simon were all off at Oxford.

“It’s not a slight against _you_ , darling,” Nina soothed him, giving his knee a pat; Miles tugged his leg away and shuffled closer to Agatha, his arm draped over the back of the settee. “It’s just that… Well, to invite him to Agatha’s party tonight would have been all well and good, but to this? You’ve invited him into the wolves’ den to be eaten like a poor, adorable little bunny rabbit in red sunglasses.”

“I assure you that I have no idea what you mean,” Miles huffed, pointedly looking out at the crowd to avoid meeting Nina’s gaze, and she tutted.

“Oh, darling, don’t be so _oblivious_. It’s not a fetching quality.”

When Miles simply set his jaw in order to avoid properly scowling, Nina sighed and explained, “He’s not _one of us_. He doesn’t have wealthy parents, he didn’t go to Oxford, and he hasn’t got a family estate waiting on him with a healthy inheritance. He’s… _self-made_.”

“And what’s so terrible about that?” Miles asked, finally turning to look a Nina, his eyes narrowing. “Really, my dear! I never took you to be so… so… so _haughty_.” Frowning in earnest, he echoed, “It’s not a fetching quality.”

“It’s not _me_ who he has to worry about!” Nina exclaimed defensively, resting a hand over her heart as if mortally wounded by the implication. “It’s everyone _else_ in this room with us! You know as well as I that our kind hate his; they think there’s something debasing about upsetting the natural order of things. They’re all positively terrified that all of the estates are going to keep getting broken up, taking with them the world they knew. The War changed things, but they’re all still stuck in the past. _Your parents_ are still stuck in the past. Do they even know, dearest, that you’ve invited Crowley to come here tonight?”

“Well… no, not _technically_ ,” Miles admitted, huffing as he added, “but not for the reasons you’re proposing! I didn’t tell Mother because I knew she’d throw a fit over adding an extra guest at the last moment - as if one person more would mean all the roast goose would be gone within minutes and the entire party would fall to ruin.”

“Is the roast goose gone already?”

All four of the young people draped on the settee started at the sound of a new voice amidst their throng, and Miles’ face broke out in a brilliant smile when he realized who it belonged to, passing his glass to Agatha, practically dropping it on her in the process, before he sprang up to his feet.

“Crowley, darling! You came!” he exclaimed, beaming before pulling the taller gentleman in for a hug ( _because, even if nobody else would, Miles considered him to be a gentleman_ ). Drawing back, his hands resting at Crowley’s shoulders, Miles all but purred, “Oh, and don’t you look _divine_.”

He did. He was dressed in a sharply cut suit that clung to him like a second skin, all black save for touches of red silken thread in his black tie, shoes so rich a red they were nearly black (and that were polished to perfection), and a gold-set ruby ring poised on the fourth finger of his right hand.

“Of course I came,” Crowley confirmed, tossing Miles an amused smirk. He was wearing a similar pair of sunglasses this evening to the first they had all seen him in, only these lenses were amber. Evidently _too_ much red would have been overkill. “I would have been in here sooner, too, but your butler gave me a bit of trouble downstairs. He insisted that I couldn’t park so close to the garden.”

“Ah,” Miles conceded, a slight blush colouring his cheeks. “I… Well, people don’t typically drive themselves to these sorts of things, my dear; I imagine that’s where the confusion arose. Bickerton is used to guests being dropped out front and their drivers taking off until around eleven.”

“You’ve got a car?” Adam asked from his perch on the settee’s arm, clearly intrigued, and Crowley looked up and nodded.

“A Bentley; the 1926 model.”

“ _My, my!_ You never mentioned that at the Ritz. Oh, darlings, think of the fun we could have!” Agatha decreed, smiling brightly, and Miles grinned, tossing Crowley a playful look.

“Fun, indeed,” he agreed, looking down when Crowley slipped him something – an envelope?

“What’s this?” he asked, his curiosity peaked, and Crowley grinned and took a glass of Château Latour as the tray passed them by.

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” he asked, sipping the wine, mirth sparkling in his golden eyes as he finished, “It’s a birthday present.”

“Oh, how exciting! How novelty – how absolutely _scandalous_ ,” Miles giddily replied as he eagerly tore into the envelope. He’d always _despised_ formal birthday parties from the time he was old enough to understand what a birthday party was. It was an evening meant to be all about him, when in reality it meant waiting hours on end for cake and then not being allowed to open his mountain of gifts until the next evening, followed by hours upon hours of writing thank-you notes to people he couldn’t care less about and hardly knew. What was an eight-year-old meant to say to an Earl who got him a set of silver spoons? What was an eight-year-old even meant to _do_ with a set of silver spoons?

( _He’d discovered, as of late, that they were exceptionally useful for snorting cocaine during dessert at particularly boring dinner parties. He never went anywhere with his parents without one_.)

Being allowed to open a gift on his _proper_ birthday, in front of the person giving it to him? It _was_ exciting, novelty, and scandalous.

Inside the envelope, to Miles slight confusion, were a pair of tickets to the Royal Opera. 

“I’ve always wanted to go to the Opera but never fancied going on my own,” Crowley mused as he swirled the Latour around in his glass, glancing at Miles over the top of his sunglasses, his gaze startlingly sincere. “Since you seem to enjoy music… well, it seemed fitting. Who better to pop my opera cherry than a pianist extraordinaire – the Ritz’s best-kept secret?”

His cheeks had grown slightly pink as Crowley spoke, the significance of his gift becoming clear. Tickets to the Opera, to Miles, were nothing special; the Maitlands had season passes every year. No, it was what Crowley was offering that touched him. _He wanted to spend time with him_ , just the two of them, because he appreciated music and thought that Miles might, too – and, regardless of what Nina might think, he wasn’t _entirely_ oblivious. Box-seat tickets to the Royal Opera were not cheap and, for someone without an unlimited income, it was a significant purchase. An incredibly _thoughtful_ purchase. Miles wasn’t sure if anyone had ever given him something quite so thoughtful – and that was an odd thing to consider. He’d never been denied anything he wanted, and yet this felt like the most significant gift he had ever been given.

“You’ve done the impossible; you’ve struck him speechless!” Adam remarked with a laugh that snapped Miles out of his reverie. Huffing, he tossed a look in Adam’s direction.

“Oh, hush up, you!” he quipped before turning to Crowley, offering him a small smile. Unsure of how to convey just how touched he really was, he settled for saying, “Thank you, my dear – _truly_. It will be my _pleasure_ to pop your opera cherry. We’ll make an evening of it. You simply _cannot_ go to Covent Garden without getting dinner at the Ritz. It would be positively hedonistic.”

“Well, I suppose that depends,” Crowley mused as Miles tucked the tickets into his jacket pocket for safe-keeping. “Will you play the piano again?”

“I’ll play the piano anytime you like,” he agreed, his hazel eyes sparkling, but their pleasant bubble was burst when Nina spoke up.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, darlings, but I do believe that’s your mother coming over, Miles, is it not?”

Sure enough, Lady Maitland was flouncing over in her green gown, her smile firmly fixed in place – but Miles could see her eyes. They were her “what _have_ you done, my sweet? _What have you done?_ ” eyes. In fact, he could see _several_ eyes; it was as if everyone in the room, while keeping up their own conversations, was simultaneously staring at him – or, rather, at _Crowley_.

_Oh, had Nina been **right?** He did hate it so when she was right. _

“Miles, my sweet!”

_“My sweet” was never a good sign. Lady Maitland had rarely scolded him when he was a child; in fact, he’d been terribly indulged and spoiled quite rotten. Subsequently, having his mother call him “my sweet” instead of “my love”, “my darling dove”, or “cherub” was the equivalent to getting the switch; “my sweet” was a significant downgrade and it meant that she was cross, which would probably mean he’d only get one helping of pudding after dinner instead of the customary two helpings._

His own smile firmly fixed, a skill he’d learned from her long ago, Miles greeted his mother with a kiss on each cheek.

“It’s a smashing party, Mother; truly one of your best,” he complimented her, with the hope that he might butter her up, but her “ _what have you done?_ ” eyes were still bearing down on him. Returning his kisses, Lady Maitland smiled at Adam, Nina, and Agatha in turn before her gaze finally settled on Crowley.

“Miles, my sweet, you didn’t tell me to expect an extra guest,” she cooed.

 **Read:** _Miles, why is this New Money party-crasher in my ballroom?_

Easily decoding the true implication behind her words, Miles kept up his smile, folding his hands behind his back as he made the necessary introductions.

“Mother, this is Anthony Crowley-” ( _He kept the “J” for himself. He liked the mystery of it and was sure she would spoil it for him_.) “-and Crowley, this is my mother, Lady Margot Maitland of Metroland Abbey.”

“So _you_ are the infamous Mr. Crowley everyone’s been talking about,” Lady Maitland mused, extending a gloved hand toward him. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“I’m infamous, am I? I hadn’t noticed,” Crowley mused, kissing her hand because it was clearly expected of him. However, the hint of sarcasm in his voice wasn’t lost on Miles, nor on Agatha, nor Nina, nor Adam. He’d have to be blind to not know he was infamous, what with how people were staring. It wasn’t the fun sort of staring that they were all used to; it was more like… _leering._

“Quite,” Lady Maitland confirmed, her gaze flitting between her newest guest and her son before she asked, “How is it that you came into such an impressive fortune, Mr. Crowley? Everyone has been just dying to know, but it seems to be London’s biggest secret.”

“Mother, _please_ ,” Miles cut in, smile still in place – but now his own eyes were being quite vocal. He was fairly certain they were screaming, “ _shut up, shUT UP, SHUT UP_.”

“Whatever is the matter, my sweet? I’m only being sociable.”

“You’re being rude,” he quickly countered, wishing he had Crowley’s ease-of-existence. He was just standing there, sipping his Latour as if he wasn’t being gawked at and hadn’t just been accosted by the party’s rather ungracious host. “Crowley is my friend; he came here to celebrate my birthday, not to be interviewed. Taking a page out of Mr. Chatterbox’s notepad, are we?”

“Why… Why _no_ , of _course_ not. You know how I deplore that _horrid_ column,” Lady Maitland countered, her cheeks turning red of their own volition beneath her powdered makeup. Realizing that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Crowley so long as Miles was hovering about, she huffed quietly. She had so hoped to be the one to crack the infamous case of _Who Precisely is Anthony J. Crowley?_ Gossip, regardless of her "deploring" Chatterbox's  _Herald_ column, was one of the few pleasures that women of her age and status had to keep themselves from withering away with boredom in their sitting rooms all day. Tonight, evidently, wasn’t going to be her night of gossipy glory.

“I know you do, dearest Mama,” Miles concurred, taking his champagne back from Agatha and sipping at it, arching an eyebrow in his mother’s direction. “I know that you would never dig for gossip like a common rat searching for a piece of cheese. That would be… _beneath_ you, wouldn’t it?”

Standing up straighter, Lady Maitland held her head high.

“Of _course_ it’s beneath me. Mr. Crowley, I hope I haven’t given you the wrong idea.”

“Not at all.”

“I really was just trying to be sociable.”

“Of course.”

“Do forgive me.”

“No forgiveness is required; I’m not offended,” Crowley concluded with a flash of a smile and another sip of his wine. Nodding curtly, Lady Maitland breezed away.

Once she had disappeared into the throng of people cluttering the Metroland Abbey ballroom, Miles drained what was left of his champagne, groaning softly and handing his empty glass to a passing server.

“How much longer do we have to stay?” he inquired, much to his friends’ amusement, and Crowley elevated an eyebrow, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose.

“Why so eager to leave your own party?”

“ _Because_ , my darling,” Miles explained, smirking, “the _real_ party begins at midnight.”

* * *

And so it did; when it comes to parties, Agatha Runcible _never_ disappoints. It was held at her grandmother’s estate; the house was (supposed to be) shut up for the winter, what with the Dowager away on holiday visiting her cousins in Scotland, and Agatha had been certain her dear Grandmama wouldn't mind. She had, after all, always been fond of Miles when they played together here as children. She truly outdid herself, too; the theme was Winter’s Eve and everything positively _sparkled_. There was an obscene layer of silver glitter coating nearly every surface of the house, paired with blue silk drapings scattered here and there on railings and pillars, and the chandeliers sparkled like dangling icicles in every room.  The white powder (that was most definitely _not_ talcum powder) which everyone received complimentary at the door even gave off the illusion of snow.

The pièce de résistance, however, were all of the costumes – because costumes just made every party so much _better_. The guests were all clad in shades of white, silver, and blue (as per Agatha’s invitational dress code), and that included the guest of honour and his ensemble. Adam had changed his black-tie attire for a white suit (which Agatha paid to have made, given his topsy-turvy financial situation as of late); Nina matched him in an elaborate white flapper dress that was comprised of soft white feathers and a layer of sparkling silk beneath; and Agatha had opted for a sequined silver number with a matching silver band adorning her hair, which left Miles to represent the blue within their group.

He was meant to be, as Agatha had phrased it, “the Fae Prince of Ice”. Presently dressed in immense amounts of silk and velvet, Miles wore a three-piece suit comprised of a white vest embroidered with silver thread, a glittering white cravat, and a powder blue silk suit jacket with matching trousers. Draped over his shoulders was a royal blue cape fit for a king, and poised atop his dark curls was a white-gold tiara encrusted with diamonds (that he may have nicked from Lady Maitland’s personal collection, confident she wouldn’t notice its absence for one night). His makeup was done in similar shades of powder and royal blue with hints of silver, while his lips were a deep red, and he had every intention of _properly_ playing the role of the Fae Prince of Ice, even if it was just a faerie character Agatha made up when she wrote the invitations whilst tipsy on chardonnay.

Crowley, having been unaware of the after-party _and_ its dress code, was still wearing his black suit – but he had allowed Miles to convince him to borrow one of his white neckties.

“ _You need a pop of colour, you silly thing; you’ll blend right into the shadows dressed all in black, and I would so very much hate to lose track of you._ ”

Since it was his birthday, Crowley humored him. Although, after driving them all to their destination and walking in, he began to understand Miles’ initial concern. He had to slip off his sunglasses and tuck them into his jacket pocket, given the entire house seemed to be lit only by blue candles in shining silver candelabras. While the candlelight _did_ make the chandeliers sparkle in an ever-so-fetching way, it was rather dark. Crowley would almost have been inclined to say it was rather intimate, if not for the jazz band raucously playing in the ballroom while people screamed, laughed, danced, tossed glitter and feathers at each other, snogged in some corners and snorted cocaine from snuffboxes in others.

Most noticeable of all, however, was all of the _alcohol._ There was more to drink just in the entrance hall than he’d deliver to an American speakeasy in two months, between the massive champagne tower and what, by the smell of it, appeared to be a vodka fountain. Everyone in sight had a drink of something in their hand, no matter what they were doing – which was impressive, given one woman was currently sliding backward down the banister of the grand staircase.

When it became clear who had finally arrived on the scene after being detained for so terribly long in the clutches of humdrum high society, cheers and a vibrant chorus of _For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow_ resounded throughout the house. Making a show of bowing gracefully and blowing a kiss to his ever-so-loyal and ever-so-drunk subjects, the Fae Prince of Ice grinned the widest grin yet of the evening when a shower of glitter, having been saved for this express purpose, rained down upon the five of them from the second-floor gallery.

( _Some of the glitter landed in the glasses of the champagne tower, but nobody really cared. Sparkle within, sparkle without_.)

“An impressive turnout,” Crowley breathed close to Miles’ ear and the birthday boy smirked, turning on the heel of his shoe and extending his arms out wide as he took a few steps back.

“That’s because _everybody loves me_ ,” he decreed with the air of a prince, amid several cheers of agreement. It wasn’t even an exaggeration; ever since he single-handedly funded the most elaborate parties in Oxford history, Miles Maitland had been a favourite of London’s Bright Young Things. He was their prince, and they the faithful patrons at all of his extravagant balls.

Crowley, not having been present for the Maitland Extravaganza of 1919, was experiencing all of this for the very first time.

It certainly wasn’t a quiet evening at the Ritz – but he didn’t necessarily think that was a _bad_ thing. It was simply new, and new things can be quite good.

For instance, the birthday cake here was quite good; _extremely_ good, even. Lady Maitland’s commissioned red velvet cake had been nice enough, but the rich devil’s food cake that he found himself eating, paired with a full-bodied red wine, at around 3:00 a.m. was positively _deadly._

* * *

They had all partied so vigorously that it nearly tipped them over the edge of exhaustion around 2:45; they danced every dance known to man, from lively quicksteps to foxtrots to the rather outdated gavotte. Coupled with several glasses of champagne and gulping vodka straight from the fountain, they were all blissed (and buzzed) out of their minds.

Adam and Nina were still dancing, although to a slower tune now than had been playing when they waltzed in. Agatha was drunkenly explaining in her enthusiastic way to a throng of the guests in one of the sitting rooms, who were all staring at a portrait on the wall, about her Great Aunt Fanny, the third Countess of Birmingham, who drank tea laced with sherry every night before bed and slept with a collective of thirty cats and a parrot named Jerrold that the Earl had brought her home from Africa. _"_ _Or was it India? No, I’m quite sure it was Africa…"_

At some point during all the excitement, Miles had disappeared. He’d just up and vanished, leaving Crowley to lounge with his long legs splayed out at the foot of the grand staircase. There were people asleep, sprawled in varying positions, on many of the steps. It was odd for Miles to have run off without a word, given he’d spent the past several hours leading Crowley around by the necktie that he let him borrow. A part of Crowley had sort of enjoyed it; thus, he found himself fidgeting with the tie in question as he thought about it, tipping his head back against the wall. Seconds later, he heard the rapid approach of heeled boots and then he was being nudged with a foot. Miles’ foot, to be precise.

“Up, up, up!” he encouraged, looking over his shoulder as if he expected to be pursued – which, in fairness, was highly possible given his popularity. He was currently clutching two china plates containing heaping slices of the devil’s food cake, with a bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm, and he continued nudging Crowley with his foot until, finally, he got to his feet.

“Where’d you run off to?” he asked, pushing a hand through his red hair, and Miles shot him a naughty little smile.

“I know where Agatha’s granny keeps the key to the wine cellar, so I ran down and nabbed us something good. But you’ve got to _go_ , my dear, quickly up the stairs before anyone sees us because I have absolutely _no_ desire to share.”

He wasn’t just talking about the wine - or the cake for that matter. It was Crowley who he didn’t particularly feel like sharing with anyone else. Taking the hint, Crowley hurried up the stairs with Miles at his heels, allowing himself to be led down the darkened second-floor gallery and through a corridor, and then another corridor, until they finally found themselves in the library. There was a fire lit, as per the Dowager’s instructions to the few servants who had stayed to keep the house in order while she was in Scotland; she had a terrible fear that, if her books were kept in the cold, the entire library would begin to smell of dampness and mildew. It simply wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

_All the better for Miles and Crowley._

Nudging the door shut behind them with the heel of his blue boot, which looked like it belonged on a seventeenth-century French dauphin rather than a rich boy in the 1920s, Miles ventured over to the settee which sat before the fire, setting the plates of cake down before he busied himself with opening the vintage bottle currently in his arms. It was older than both of them put together and then multiplied by two. Making a victorious little sound when he succeeded, he proceeded to pout when he came to a terrible realization.

“The glasses! I’ve gone and forgot the _glasses_ ,” he groaned, dropping himself down onto the settee, and Crowley chuckled as he crossed the room to join him. Taking a seat on the floor, giving himself more room to stretch his legs, he took the bottle from Miles’ hands.

“No bother,” he assured him, smirking before putting it to his lips and drinking it straight.

His eyes sparkling at the sight, Miles giddily muttered, "That _is_ naughty. _Terribly_ naughty. Granny Runcible would have my neck if she saw that.”

“Granny Runcible’s not here, is she?” Crowley asked, handing the bottle back to Miles. “Besides, it _is_ your birthday, is it not? Live a little.”

Having somebody tell _him_ , the infamous “Miles Malpractice”, to “live a little” was so deliciously rare. Crowley didn’t see him as the raunchy, half-mad party animal that Chatterbox painted him to be; he just saw him as… a _person_. A person who played the piano; a person who he wanted to go to the Opera with. Moving to lounge back on the settee, his head pillowed just below the armrest (causing his tiara to tilt precariously) and at the perfect vantage point to face Crowley, who had his back leaned against the sofa, Miles offered him a smile – not a grin, or a smirk, but a real, _proper_ smile.

“Oh, I _do_ like you,” he breathed, his eyes shining, and Crowley turned his head to look at Miles; both of their faces were shadowed by the fire’s glow.

His own lips quirking upward, Crowley mused, “You’re not so bad yourself, for a Fae Prince of Ice.”

The sound that escaped Miles as he rolled onto his back was nothing short of a giggle and he took a pointed swig from the bottle of wine. His cheeks felt flushed from all of the alcohol and the warmth of the fire, but there was something else, too -  _Crowley_ made him blush. He made him blush so  _easily._ It was all a bit bizarre for Miles, who was used to being the one making  _other_ people blush, not the blusher. Propping himself up on his elbows, he put a tremendous amount of effort into schooling his expression.

“Well, as the Fae Prince of Ice, I believe I must make an extraordinarily important decree,” he stated, doing his best to look serious, which was increasingly difficult with Crowley _chuckling_. It was such a rich, enchanting sound.

“What might that be, your Highness?”

His serious demeanor melting into a playful grin, Miles handed Crowley the bottle of wine as he declared, “ _Let them eat cake._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words cannot express how chuffed I am that this is actually getting attention; I was certain I was only writing it for myself. I'm glad that you all seem to be enjoying it! Comments and kudos always send my heart aflutter. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @ apictureofspace; it's where I post updates about this story and others. Ciao, loves. <3


	3. Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date at the opera leads to the beginnings of a whirlwind getaway to Gordan Park, Crowley's vineyard estate in South Downs. Needless to say, things don't quite go according to plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is an homage to Lord Byron because... basically this entire chapter is an homage to Lord Byron. Miles is just obsessed with Byron.

Who could have known that a night at the opera could be so… poetic?

Well, obviously it was poetic in the _literal_ sense; how could Lord Byron’s _Manfred_ put to music _not_ be poetic? But Miles didn’t mean it in the literal sense – very rarely did he mean _anything_ in the literal sense. Once a person began speaking literally, bleakness and boredom tended to follow.

No; upon reflection, he realized he meant “poetic” in the _figurative_ sense – meaning that it was incredibly poetic (i.e. _deliciously convenient)_ that the night he and Crowley finally set out for Covent Garden was the same night that Byron’s classic was being performed. He had always been a fan of Lord Byron, both as a person _and_ as a poet; you could say the infamous Lord was a bit of an inspiration to Miles and to all of his closest friends. His poetry had inspired Adam to take up writing back at Oxford, and his personal life had given Miles a push in his current carefree direction; he started wearing an earring like Byron, drinking copiously like Byron, and flirting shamelessly like Byron – with an especial emphasis on the latter for, prior to attending Oxford, “shameless” wasn’t exactly a word Miles would have used to describe himself.

He’d always felt like he was different from the other boys at Eton growing up, but he’d repressed it. That was just what one did; suffering stoically in silence was the norm. He was dreadfully unhappy all of the time, but he couldn't tell anyone about it; after all, what would he have said? He could hardly walk up to his father, the Earl of Metroland, and say, “Dearest Papa, I think I may fancy boys.” _It simply was not done._  

( _He’d tried his hand with girls shortly after turning sixteen; Agatha, aware that he was feeling troubled by his lack of interest in the fairer sex, had offered to let Miles kiss her to see if it would spark an attraction. It didn’t, of course – for either of them – but they came to a mutual agreement that if they were both still unmarried by the time they were forty-five, they would marry each other. You know, for the sake of keeping up appearances_. _That was what best friends were for._ )

Lord Byron changed everything. Lord Byron, with his impeccable style and lavish lyricism, blew the world wide open for Miles Maitland. He’d been sitting in a history lecture with Simon Balcairn in one of the many stuffy classrooms at Oxford, staring out the window as an autumn drizzle pounded against the panes of glass when Professor Hurst started raving about Lord Byron’s “ _moral ineptitude_ ”. Instantly, Miles’ attention was drawn back to the lecture – for moral ineptitude was _far_ more interesting than the politics they had been studying a few days before.

Exactly one lecture and two biographies from the library later, Miles Maitland had found his hero. While many called Byron “salacious” and “obscene”, eighteen-year-old Miles found himself idolizing just how _little_ the poet cared what people thought of him. He wrote suggestive poetry that scandalized polite society, he lived luxuriously, and he had countless affairs – with women _and_ with men.

_If Byron could be who he wished without fearing the societal uproar it may have caused, then why couldn’t he do the same?_

Now, almost a decade later, it felt _extremely_ poetic to be attending an operatic rendition of what was arguably Byron’s greatest masterpiece -  _with_ a man that he fancied quite intensely. If only his anxious teenage-self could see him now, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so afraid to feel comfortable in his own skin. _Trying to change who you are is futile_ – that’s what he would tell himself. _True happiness lies in embracing what makes you different. If you’re lucky, somebody else may want to embrace you, too_.

Yet, that was where the trouble lay. Miles was quite certain that this was a date. They’d gone for dinner at the Ritz before driving to Covent Garden and Crowley had insisted upon picking up the tab; then, once they reached the theatre’s lobby, Crowley was adamant about which of the bar’s offered wines was the best and wouldn’t let up until Miles allowed for a glass to be bought for him to try; and now, despite the fact that they had an entire opera box to themselves, Crowley had made a point of sitting directly beside Miles.

They were all _incredibly_ flirtatious gestures – but they could _also_ be viewed as gestures of friendship. After all, Nina usually took care of the tab when they all dined at the Ritz; Adam always insisted that his travels meant he knew what wines were to die for and which would make you want to die; and Agatha, whenever they went to the opera together, would sit as close as possible so they could whisper about how horrendous the costumes were. Thus, Miles was quite sure that he and Crowley were on a date – but he couldn't be  _positive_.

It was enough to drive him mad.

As the soprano playing the part of Astarte sang mournfully about her own tragic death, Miles glanced away from his opera glasses to sneak a peek at Crowley in the dark of their box – and he had to blink several times at what he saw.

Crowley, red sunglasses slipping down his nose, was _crying_. Not a loud, messy sort of crying, but silent and reserved tears; the kind that tends to roll down one’s cheeks unchecked for fear of being noticed. They _had_ been noticed, though, and Miles was fascinated. He’d been to the opera more times than he could count - and many of the performances had been tragedies - but he had never once seen anyone cry. Not his mother, not his sisters, and _certainly_ not his father, nor Agatha, nor Nina, nor Adam. Perhaps, Miles reasoned, it was a sort of desensitization; after growing up attending such performances, it became no more emotionally charged than a choir performance at a Sunday church service. Once again, Miles found himself remembering that Crowley didn’t grow up in his world; he wasn’t immune to the mournful tones of Manfred’s dead lover. He was so wonderfully… _different._

Opting to take a chance, Miles reached a gloved hand over to rest it on top of Crowley’s; it was only a _friendly gesture_ , after all. Comfortingly touching a friend’s hand was no different than buying them a glass of wine. What _makes_ it different is how the person reacts. Crowley didn’t leave his hand limp or choose to pull it away, but rather turned his hand over beneath Miles’ and made a point of tangling their fingers together with a gentle squeeze. With the white glove of his free hand, he hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks and fixed his sunglasses.

Beside him, Miles’ heart started beating just a bit faster.

They sat like that in the secluded darkness of their box for the remainder of the performance, hands clasped together between them, and the touches that passed between them could in no way be misconstrued as _just friendly_ ; there was a clearly flirtatious underlying intention. After roughly ten minutes and a full aria of merely holding hands, Crowley’s thumb had started delicately tracing Miles’ index finger from knuckle to fingertip and back again in a pattern that made him shiver despite the relative warmth of the theatre. In retaliation, Miles had nudged Crowley’s foot with his own before winding their legs together. To anyone with even the sharpest of opera glasses, the pair looked like any other pair of gentlemen taking in the performance – while, just a few feet below and out of sight, they were thoroughly tangled up in each other.

To put it delicately, Miles was flustered. It had been nearly a month since his birthday party rocked London’s social scene – meaning it had been nearly a month since he stole Crowley away for himself and tucked the two of them away in Granny Runcible’s library. It had been nearly a month since they got drunk together on priceless vintage straight out of the bottle; it had been nearly a month since they tipsily fed each other cake; it had been nearly a month, too, since Miles almost snogged Crowley senseless.

* * *

They’d stayed as they were, with Crowley sprawled on the floor and Miles lying on the couch, until sunrise. With the entire bottle of wine drained between the two of them and the taste of chocolate frosting still on their tongues, they were each a textbook case of sheer intoxication – and, when the sun began to filter in through the tall windows on the opposite side of the room, Miles found himself utterly enchanted by the creature in front of him.

With his sunglasses still tucked into his jacket pocket, Crowley’s eyes were freely exposed to the early morning wash of sunlight, turning his irises from a dark amber to an earthy gold, and his hair, usually a deep auburn, caught the light in a way that seemed to set his red hair aflame, creating the most enchanting sort of halo. In his drunken state, Miles had thought Crowley looked like something out of a Greek epic; god-like, enchanting, and _entirely beautiful_. He was an Adonis sent down to see personally to his tragic undoing, and he was all too happy to be a willing participant in his own destruction.

( _Miles, like his idol, had a tendency to wax poetic when he reached a certain level of drunkenness. Adam, while they were still at Oxford, had begun keeping a log of the wild soliloquies Miles would shout out of windows before falling asleep where he stood. He’d tried to convince his Byronic best friend that he ought to take up writing while sober, but Miles had refused; he’d insisted that he preferred to do dramatic readings of what others had already written. He would leave the pen and ink to stain Adam’s fingers; his manicurist appointments were simply too expensive to risk compromising, even if he was a natural talent._ )

Watching Crowley stare sleepily into the dying embers of the fireplace, Miles had been mere seconds away from leaning over and kissing him. Had Agatha not stumbled in and cheerfully declared that there would be bacon and eggs to eat when they all came ‘round, before she fell into an armchair and immediately fell asleep, he certainly would have pressed his lips shamelessly to Crowley’s, which may or may not have been a grave mistake. He fell asleep before he could deliberate upon it further.

* * *

Now, in the darkness of their box, it became clear that kissing Crowley wouldn’t have been a mistake – and he was beginning to develop a strong urge to attempt doing so again. Frustratingly, a kiss would be more noticeable than holding hands and playing footsie – and the house lights went up before Miles could really consider taking the risk. Somewhat awkwardly, he forced himself to untangle from Crowley and rise to his feet.

“A wonderful performance, don’t you think?” he asked, albeit a bit more breathlessly than he had intended, earning a nod from Crowley as he stood as well, running a gloved hand through his shock of red hair.

“It was beautiful,” he agreed, straightening his dinner jacket, and the smallest of smirks pulled at Miles’ lips as he observed the tear tracks still lingering on Crowley’s skin. Lifting a hand to his cheeks to wipe them away, Miles allowed his palm to linger there for a moment as he mused, “You seemed quite moved by it, darling.”

“I’ve never heard anyone sing like that,” Crowley responded, a tad gruffly, as he turned to lead Miles from their box and back downstairs to the lobby, red sunglasses firmly in place. Aside from the hue of his hair, they were the only pop of colour that his tuxedo allowed for. “Records don’t do any of it justice.”

“I suppose they don’t,” Miles agreed, resisting the powerful urge to link his arm through Crowley’s as he followed him downstairs while the upper-class crowd hustled and bustled around them. After spending the better part of an hour with both his fingers and his leg tangled together with Crowley’s, it felt odd to be forced to put distance between the two of them.

“I never considered how beautiful it really was until… Well, until I saw how it all was affecting you. But don’t worry,” Miles teased, smiling as he lightly knocked his shoulder against Crowley’s, “I won’t tell anyone that you cried. I know you have a reputation to uphold.”

“Well, I should hope my reputation includes an appreciation for the arts,” Crowley sniffed as they ventured toward the coat check, handing off their tickets to the attendant. Smirking, he mused, “Let the busybodies talk all they want about my crying at the opera. Perhaps they’ll stop hypothesizing about every other aspect of my life.”

“Oh, that’s hardly likely,” Miles disagreed as he took his coat and scarf from the attendant, winding the blue silk around his neck before shrugging into the white pea coat and doing up the buttons. After allowing Crowley a moment to slip into his own black overcoat, the two of them set out into the cool, damp evening. _Just a few days more and spring would be upon them…_

“Why do you say that it's unlikely?” Crowley asked as they waited for the valet to fetch his car. Hands in his pockets, he looked down at Miles with a deftly arched eyebrow. Miles just smiled.

“Because, my _dear_ Anthony, you’re everyone’s favourite subject. The mysterious Mr. Crowley, with his secret fortune and private Mayfair flat that no one has ever stepped foot in; you’re positively a local fascination.”

The look in Miles’ eyes was entirely coquettish; it was no coincidence that he mentioned that no one had ever stepped foot in Crowley’s flat. He was fishing for an invitation, hoping to be the first to break into his secret little world. Unfortunately, no invitation came; instead, Crowley just smirked and asked, “Am I _your_ favourite subject?”

“Only in the most confidential of company,” Miles hemmed _(meaning Agatha)._

“And do you find me fascinating?”

“Oh, _exceedingly_.”

Smiling, Miles tossed Crowley a wink as the valet pulled up with the Bentley, allowing the two of them to slide into the car’s warmth and out of London’s late-winter dampness.

As they drove, Miles found himself watching from the corner of his eye as Crowley tugged his white gloves off with his teeth before tossing each one in turn into the backseat. Not exactly the most _refined_ way of doing things, but it _was_ the most enrapturing. Delicately plucking his own off one finger at a time, Miles let his gaze properly settle on Crowley when the redhaired gentleman asked, “What would you like to know?”

“Sorry?”

“You said you find me exceedingly fascinating,” Crowley clarified, tapping his fingers against the Bentley’s steering wheel as he drove, the gold of his ruby ring clicking against the mahogany as he did so. “I assume that means you’re curious.”

“Well, yes. Obviously,” Miles agreed, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he added, “But I’m not _presumptuous_. I know you like having your secrets. What right have I to them?”

“I do like having my secrets... but maybe I’d also like having a confidant,” Crowley mused, pausing the tapping of his ring to peek over at Miles, his lips quirking upwards at the way the other gentleman’s jaw dropped ever-so-slightly. “After all, it’s not as if you’re that infamous Mr. Chatterbox, eh? I’m sure I can trust you.”

“Of course you can,” Miles breathed, the words coming out rather like a squeak.

“Then I’ll ask you again: what would you like to know?”

Sitting silently, Miles weighed his questions very carefully. He had no way of knowing how many he was allowed to ask, or how long he would have to ask them, so he needed to make them good. Finally, he asked the one that had been on his mind since the night they met.

“What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

“Hmm?”

“In your name. Anthony J. Crowley. What does it stand for?”

To Miles’ surprise, Crowley chuckled - and the chuckle quickly morphed into a proper laugh. Smirking broadly, he answered in an all-too-self-satisfied way, “Nothing.”

“What?”

“It stands for nothing. The ‘J’ isn’t short for anything in particular; I made it up.”

“You _made it up?_ ”

“Oh, yes. It’s a complete fabrication. The parishioners didn’t give us middle names; we were lucky if they gave us names at all. All they knew when I was delivered to them was that my surname was ‘Crowley’, and they stuck me with ‘Anthony’ because they’d already Christened an ‘Andrew’ that morning and ‘Anthony’ was next down on their list. Not entirely unlike scientists, parishioners; one names hurricanes, the other names orphans.”

Blinking rapidly, rather stunned by the unexpected revelation, Miles asked, “…you were an orphan?”

Running a hand through his hair, Crowley briefly pursed his lips before explaining, “I was four when I was sent to the poorhouse; Mum and Dad were ripped away from me, transported for life for something or other, and it was all a terrible shock. I couldn’t remember what my proper name was back then if I tried.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Miles whispered, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. There was something just so dreadfully… _dreadful_ about imagining a tiny Crowley, likely skinny as ever, utterly abandoned and desolate. Miles had led a privileged life, with bonbons and pony-rides and governesses to menace, and he had never once felt guilty for all that had been handed to him on a silver platter – until now.

“Oh, don’t _pity_ me,” Crowley huffed, making a face at the prospect, his nose upturned. “Sure, it was miserable for a few years, but I got myself out of it. I had no choice but to become ‘Anthony’ when I was young, but I _did_ get to choose who I was going to be for the rest of my life. I remember thinking about all of those rich gentlemen who walked around London in their hats and coats, and how they all had posh names like ‘Harold T. Barnaby’ or ‘Patrick M. Carlisle’ – and that’s who I decided I was going to be. Anthony Crowley was a poorhouse labourer who lived a rotten existence, but Anthony _J._ Crowley? He was going to be someone.”

“I dare say you succeeded, my dear,” Miles whispered, offering him a small smile. Peeking over at him, Crowley returned it.

“I dare say I did.”

“But how?”

“How what?”

“How did you do it?” Miles questioned, scooting a bit closer to Crowley with interest. “It’s the question everyone wants the answer to, darling: how did you come so far from nothing at all?”

“Ah,” Crowley hummed, biting his lip. Resuming the tapping of his ring on the steering wheel, he admitted, “Well… it’s not exactly _legal_.”

“My dear, you don’t think me a _prude_ , do you? Nothing worth doing is ever _wholly_ legal,” Miles drawled, smirking as he draped his arm over the back of Crowley’s seat. Letting his fingers deftly toy with the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck, he whispered, “Tell me. There’s something… deliciously _naughty_ about keeping somebody’s dirty little secret.”

This time, it was Crowley’s turn to blush as goosebumps rose all over his body beneath Miles’ tantalizing touch. Clearing his throat, doing his best to maintain his cool demeanor, he asked, “You’re sure you want to know?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely _dying_ for you to tell me.”

“I’m involved with international trade endeavors,” Crowley answered, smirking ever so slightly when Miles sniffed with disappointment.

“Oh, well that’s… well. That’s…”

“You didn’t ask me what I’m in the business of trading,” Crowley prompted, noting the way Miles’ ministrations at his neck paused thoughtfully.

“What is it that you trade?” he asked, his voice dripping with anticipation, and Crowley couldn’t help chuckling.

“It started out as smuggling alcohol over to the Americans; they’re all desperate for it, you know. It doesn’t even have to be _good_ and they’ll pay through the nose for it. But the _real_ money, I’ve come to realize… is in the dealing of opiates.”

“Oh, you absolute _devil!_ You _beast!_ ” Miles exclaimed, giving Crowley’s arm a playful swat. “You’ve been hanging about with us all for _ages_ now, and not _once_ did you mention that you’re _the Opium Lord!_ ”

“The _what?_ ” Crowley asked with a startled laugh and Miles huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, _please_ , Crowley darling, don’t pretend to be so _dense-_ ”

“I’m not pretending!” Crowley exclaimed as he turned a corner, pausing afterward and clearing his throat before he added, “Erm… That is, I’m not _dense_ , but… I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about. Who’s this Opium Lord?”

“ _You_ , evidently,” Miles huffed again, hesitating before asking, “You mean you really don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Miles sighed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you _read?_ ”

The look Crowley shot him from over his red lenses – one of complete and utter exasperation – prompted Miles to carry on without receiving an answer.

“The Opium Lord is the nickname all of the Tory newspapers have given the unknown party who keeps smuggling opiates into the country undetected. Nobody knew for certain that it was really _one person_ – actually, most people have thought that would be impossible – and here you’ve been right under our noses this entire time!”

Smirking, Miles all but preened as he mused, “Darling, you’re our _hero!_ You have no idea how dull life would be without a little fix now and then; parties would simply be _unbearable_.” Tutting, he rested his head against Crowley’s arm, lightly scratching at the back of his neck with well-manicured fingernails as he said, “All this time with the Opium Lord in our midst and we didn’t have a clue. You must have _buckets_ of all the best stuff on hand at all times...”

His lips pressed into a fine line while Miles fawned over him, Crowley found himself feeling terribly conflicted. On the one hand, this was good; if most people assumed this ‘Opium Lord’ couldn’t possibly be only one person, then he was probably safe for the time being. On the other hand, though, it meant people were hypothesizing – and hypothesizing could lead to discovery, which could lead to transportation… or worse. He would need to speak with his contacts and establish a few alternate shipping routes; he could afford to lay low for a while, to bring in fewer shipments, until the speculation had fizzled out.

Lifting a hand from the steering-wheel, Crowley let it come to rest in Miles’ curls, toying with his dark hair while he drove them through the dark, drizzly night. Miles, making a soft noise in the back of his throat beneath Crowley’s touch, shuffled closer.

“It wasn’t an intentional deception,” he explained as they rolled along the private road that led to Metroland Abbey, his fingernails delicately teasing Miles’ scalp. Crowley found himself biting his lip yet again when the sound that it pulled from Miles was shockingly close to a quiet moan.

“I still think that you must make it up to us,” Miles mused, flitting his hazel gaze up to look at Crowley when the car came to a stop. Neither was oblivious to the fact that they had parked in the middle of the driveway, far enough back that the butler wouldn’t yet be able to see the headlights from the door.

“Must I?” Crowley asked, lightly chucking Miles’ chin.

“You _must_ ,” Miles insisted, even as his heart began to beat erratically. This was the closest that he and Crowley had ever gotten, with his head resting on the redhead’s shoulder and his gaze locked onto his lips. He felt his breath hitch when Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them haphazardly onto the dashboard of the car – and then, mere seconds later and with a mumble of " _well, if I **must**_ ", their lips finally met.

Perhaps it was a coincidence that the rain started to pour at nearly that exact moment, blurring out the windshield from any eyes (or cameras) that happened to be prying. Whether or not the universe was on their side was irrelevant, really, because all Miles could think was that the onslaught of rain was a rather poetic visualization of how he was presently feeling. The second Crowley’s cool, soft lips touched his, a wave of something incredibly _intense_ flooded through him. Miles had always been one to feel things intensely, but this was… _different_. This was warm, and passionate, and made him feel safe and like he was dangling at the edge of a precipice all at once. Everything was just… _Crowley_.

Their kiss started off gently, almost timidly, but soon enough Crowley’s fingers were properly knotted in Miles’ curls and Miles’ had bunched up Crowley’s overcoat in his fists in an attempt to drag himself even closer. One kiss turned into two, which quickly turned into three, with each kiss growing deeper until Crowley’s tongue had made Miles whimper and Miles bit down hard enough on Crowley’s lower lip to make him moan. Tugging at his lip with his teeth, Miles shivered with delight when he let Crowley go, smirking when Crowley chased his lips for another, hungrier kiss - and with his fingers still tugging at Miles’ hair, he had enough purchase to kiss him _firmly._ It was the sort of kiss that laid claim over a person; the kind that made one’s head spin and left their lips slightly swollen from the pressure. Delirious from a lack-of-air (and from sheer euphoria), Miles giggled when they finally broke apart to breathe.

“I think that you’ve certainly made it up to _me_ ,” Miles breathed, still clutching Crowley’s overcoat in his hands, “but I’m afraid the others will still be rather cross with you for holding out on them…”

“I’m hardly going to kiss them _all,_ ” Crowley remarked, nipping at Miles’ lip with surprisingly sharp canines and smirking when it drew a quiet gasp from his throat which quickly melted into a groan.

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ ,” Miles all but snapped, holding onto Crowley’s coat that much tighter – but the slight panic that hooked its talons into his stomach was genuine. He’d known Crowley long enough now to have noticed the attention that he drew – and not just because he was “the infamous Anthony J. Crowley”. He drew attention because he was handsome and charming and because he was one of London’s most eligible bachelors. More than that, he drew attention because he was _confident;_  if he ever felt awkward or uncertain, he had an elegant way of never really showing it. Miles envied him that.

Miles also envied every man and woman who had caught Crowley’s eye in the past two months. At parties and when they all dined at the Ritz, Miles hadn’t failed to notice the way that Crowley would sometimes return the gazes that were tossed his way. If he already had to compete with the whole of London to be the apple of Crowley’s eye, he didn’t want to have to beat his _friends_ off with a stick, as well. His cheeks burning, Miles blurted out, “I rather want you all to myself.”

The way that Crowley smirked in response did odd things to Miles’ stomach. It was almost… _predatory._

_And he **liked it.**_

“I believe that can be arranged,” Crowley murmured, his voice dropping a few octaves, and Miles whimpered softly when their lips met again with ever-so-tempting tenderness. It was the sort of tenderness that just barely concealed the animalistic _want_ lingering beneath - but Crowley was already extracting himself delicately from Miles’ grip, driving the rest of the way up to Metroland Abbey’s impressive front entrance.

“I think I know a way to make it up to all of you in one fell swoop,” Crowley mused once he had parked out front, glancing toward the door when he saw Bickerton, the butler, pull it open.

“Oh?” Miles asked, still breathless – (breathlessly disappointed that Crowley had continued to see him home rather than doing a round-about turn and taking him back to his flat, where they could be alone).

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed, once again tapping his ring against the steering-wheel and _oh_ , what Miles wouldn’t give to kiss those fingers, to see what they felt like pressed against his skin… but Crowley was still speaking, and he forced himself to listen.

“I have business to attend to at my vineyard in South Downs in a few weeks,” Crowley was explaining, keeping a watchful eye on Bickerton while he spoke. “A shipment to see off and inventory to conduct. Why don’t you all tag along?” Smirking, he mused, “It’s bound to rain, but I’m sure we could all find plenty to do. What was it you said before? _Buckets of fun?_ ”

“Oh,” Miles breathed, his eyes widening when he realized what Crowley was implying. Evidently, wine wasn’t the _only_ thing that he kept well in stock at his vineyard. “ _Oh._ Yes, I’m sure they would all love that. It sounds… positively _decadent_.”

“It’s settled, then,” Crowley confirmed, picking his sunglasses back up from the dashboard and repositioning them on his nose. “You make the calls, I’ll supply the wine and the other illicit party favors. We’ll plan for three weeks from this Saturday.”

Still entirely breathless, Miles nodded before slipping from the car and heading inside. Had Bickerton not been hovering like a watchful old owl, he would have insisted upon a proper kiss goodnight.

* * *

To everyone’s immense surprise, the weather on the morning of their arrival in South Downs was impeccable. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was unseasonably warm for early April in England. As they all stepped off of the train, luggage in hand, there were several grievances shared among the bunch about what they had chosen to pack.

“I didn’t even think to bring a proper sunhat,” Nina complained airily, clutching a daintier hat to her curls against the breeze, and Miles sighed as he looked down at his own suitcase, a pair of sunglasses not unlike Crowley’s perched upon his nose. He’d recently fallen into the habit of wearing them, if only because they made him think of his dashing redhaired companion. Pulling them off to polish the dark-tinted lenses with his periwinkle vest, Miles sniffed at the spring air. Compared to the stuffiness of London, everything in the country smelled so _alive_. He wasn’t entirely sure yet if he liked it.

“I’m afraid everything I’ve brought will be much too _warm_. The letter Crowley sent last week said the rain hadn’t broken since he _got here_. Oh, this is just _too_ inconvenient.”

Truthfully, Miles had been banking upon it pouring rain for their entire visit. That would restrict all of their activities to getting entirely sloshed, which would make it far easier for him to get Crowley alone. If the weather was _pleasant_ , they would all want to _do_ things, like tour the vineyard and see the local sights. Miles wasn’t presently interested in either option; he was simply interested in _Crowley_.

They hadn’t seen each other since that night at the opera; Crowley had driven to South Downs the next morning and had been there ever since tending to business, meaning that correspondence by letter was the only way for them to discuss… what had happened. Regardless of Adam’s insistence, Miles didn’t fancy himself a poet and he would have much preferred to speak to Crowley in person about it all.

He’d tried; he rang at his flat, both in person and over the phone, to no avail. Finally, a letter from South Downs arrived with the morning post roughly three days later. His father had carelessly passed it to him at the breakfast table, entirely unware of its contents.

 

> **March 14 th 1929 **
> 
> **_Miles,_ **
> 
> **_I hope you don’t think I’ve forgotten you. A letter arrived this morning, summoning me to the vineyard early; I couldn’t put it off and I fear it’s going to detain me until you all arrive. That said, I couldn’t wait three weeks to hear from you; you’ve been on my mind since I woke up and I simply can’t seem to shake you._ **
> 
> **_Not sure I want to, really._ **
> 
> **_\- A. J._ **

Miles had blushed from his cheeks to his hair while he read the letter through again and again before briskly excusing himself from the breakfast table and hurrying upstairs to pen a response.

Keeping with the anonymity because it made the exchange feel all the more scandalous (and thus far more fun), Miles adopted the initials of his secret lover as he wrote:

 

> **March 16 th 1929 **
> 
> **_Dearest A. J.,_ **
> 
> **_I’ve nearly gone mad waiting to hear from you. How could you leave without phoning, you wicked thing, you? It was as if you dropped off the face of the Earth. Needless to say, I’m so incredibly pleased that you haven’t._ **
> 
> **_It’s been days now and you’re still all that I can think about, too. Your fingers in my hair, your lips pressed to mine… Is it terrible of me to say I wish, ever so much, to kiss you again? It’s all that I daydream of and you’re all I see when I close my eyes at night. Kiss me again, won’t you?_ **
> 
> **_Yours,  
>  the Fae Prince_ **

And so they fell into a pattern, filling the days between Crowley’s absence and their reunion with letters; deeply personal letters that, despite Miles’ previous instance, _were_ rather poetic. They were filled with longing and passion – with all of the things that they could never convey over the phone for fear of somebody listening in.

 

> **March 18 th 1929 **
> 
> **_Your Royal Highness,_ **
> 
> **_The true challenge will be to not kiss you whenever I wish it, regardless of where we may be and what company we find ourselves in. Your lips tasted like the wine I bought you – and, since being here, I’ve spent the past few days drinking nearly an entire case of the stuff just to relive that moment. You might say I’ve become quite addicted – to you._ **
> 
> **_Yes, I’ll kiss you again – but only if you kiss me first._ **
> 
> **_Yours,  
>  A. J._ **

 -

 

> **March 20 th 1929 **
> 
> **_My Darling A. J.,_ **
> 
> **_OF COURSE I’ll kiss you first, you silly thing; you’ll be hard-pressed to keep my hands off of you. It’s almost a shame we had to invite everybody to tag along on this upcoming excursion; as I believe I’ve said before, I’d much rather have you all to myself. The things we could get up to, my dearest darling..._**
> 
> **_Oh, but everyone is so excited; Agatha nearly burst when I told her. Somehow, the dear has never been to a vineyard before. We’ll all have such fun. But I do hope you aren’t working yourself too hard on your own down there. Take care, won’t you?_ **
> 
> **_Yours,  
>  F. P.   
>  _**

The letters carried on like that until the very last one arrived a few days prior, warning Miles of the relentless rain _(and promising to drag him outside and kiss him thoroughly in it)_. That may have been what he was most disgruntled about; he’d been so _looking_ _forward_ to being kissed in the rain...

“I wouldn’t fret, darling,” Agatha piped up, smirking at Miles as they all made their way down the small train station’s platform. “I’m sure you can borrow something of Crowley’s.”

Blushing, Miles nudged Agatha with his elbow – but his expression quickly turned from troubled to so bright that it rivaled the sun when they stepped out off of the platform and were greeted by a familiar horn’s honk. The Bentley was waiting on their arrival, as had been promised, and Miles felt his stomach do flip-flops when he saw the driver step out to help with their bags.

“The train got you all here in one piece, then?” Crowley asked, taking Agatha’s suitcase to place in the boot while Adam took care of Nina’s.

“Oh, yes. It was quite a lovely trip,” Agatha agreed, still grinning as she mused, “but poor Miles hasn’t stopped moping about the sunshine.”

“I haven’t been _moping_ ,” Miles quipped, his cheeks still pink as he attempted to defend himself. “I was just… expecting rain.”

“No need to mope,” Crowley mused, taking Miles’ suitcase from his hands with a smirk, his eyes glinting mischievously behind the lenses of his sunglasses. The ruby tinted glass was almost the exact same shade as the red silk shirt currently clinging to Crowley’s lithe form and it was all Miles could do _not_ to bite his lip at the sight. What right did he have to look so delectable in a place where he couldn’t kiss him?

Blinking to clear his head, Miles watched Crowley load his suitcase into the car, certain his pupils were dilated behind his own sunglasses as he asked, “Why is that?”

“The wind, of course,” Crowley explained as he shut the boot, opening up the backseat so that the other three passengers could pile in. “It’s sunny _now_ , but we’ll be lucky if it lasts through to dinner. We’re blowing up a proper storm; all the locals have been saying it’s going to be a big one.”

“A dark and stormy night?” Adam asked from the backseat as Miles and Crowley slipped into the front. “How very Byronic.”

If anything, that only made Miles blush even brighter.

* * *

Dark and stormy, as it turned out, was a bit of an understatement. By six o’clock the sky was positively black with thunder clouds; rain pounded against the windows all throughout the large house that overlooked the vineyard at Gordon Park; powerful wind shook the glass panes in their frames and made the walls tremor and creak; and loud claps of thunder echoed through the expansive estate, paired with bright cracks of lightning. Because Nina was terrified they would blow a fuse and the entire house would go up like a tinderbox, she had insisted that they shut all of the lights out after dinner and light candles instead – which even Adam had agreed seemed rather counterintuitive if she was afraid of the possibility of fire, but Crowley had requested that the serving staff humor her.

In short, the weather was positively ghastly, the parlor was lit with dozens of candles, and everyone in the room was positively shitfaced.

They’d broken into Crowley’s personal store of vintage wines around eight o’clock, meaning they were all thoroughly sloshed by nine – but they still left room for a touch of absinthe at nine-thirty and a delightful nightcap of cocaine at ten.

_Absolutely, positively shitfaced._

“Crowley, darling, what _are_ those little things moving about on the ceiling?” Agatha asked as she lay on the floor, staring up at the mural painted on the ceiling – and, in reality, nothing was ‘moving about’ but you would have been hard-pressed to tell Agatha that.

Crowley, who was lounging on the nearest sofa with Miles head pillowed on his lap, still nursing his absinthe, looked up and explained, “Those’re cherubs. Little fat baby angels.”

“Why’ve you got little fat baby angels flying about on your ceiling, Crowley?” Agatha asked, squinting as she stared at them.

From Crowley’s lap, Miles laughed – quietly at first, but increasingly louder until he was all but _cackling._ Smirking, finding yet again that he rather enjoyed that sound (even if it was the result of being _extremely_ high), Crowley combed his fingers through Miles’ curls as he stated, “It’s b’cause the house is B’roque.”

“ _Broke?_ The house is _broke?_ Oh, Adam, I knew it! We’re all going to die!” Nina wailed drunkenly from her spot on the armchair nearest to the fire, where she’d curled up on Adam’s lap around twenty minutes ago.

“Are we going to die?” Agatha asked breezily, looking over at Crowley and Miles.

Miles, still giggling, exclaimed, “ _Baroque_ , darling, not _broke._ Like the art.”

“Ngh,” Crowley said definitively in agreement, his fingers trailing down from Miles’ hair to trace up and down the side of his neck instead. The result was Miles preening like a kitten before wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist, while Nina stopped her wailing and simply said, “…oh.”

Of course, this development rather disgruntled poor Adam; when Nina had been terrified they were all going to die, she’d all but wound herself around him, but now she’d gone and floated out of his lap again, crossing the room to pour herself another glass of wine. Nina’s whims were flighty at best and he’d hoped this excursion might entice her to give him a kiss or two; evidently, it was going to require a bit more effort on his part.

“Say, gang – why don’t we play a game?” he suggested.

“Oh, I _do_ love games,” Agatha agreed, rolling over onto her stomach on the floor and partially tangling herself up in the rug beneath her in the process. “What game shall we play, darlings? We could play golf! I do love a spirited round of golf.”

“We can’t play golf, darling; it’s raining,” Miles tutted, readjusting himself on the couch so his head rested against Crowley’s thigh while his hand dropped down to pet Agatha’s hair.

“Oh, that’s right. Drat,” Agatha sighed, grinning and poking Miles’ cheek. Over in his armchair, Adam shook his head.

“Not golf, Aggie; something more like…” Glancing around, his eyes alighted on one of the many empty bottles lying in various places throughout the parlor. Getting to his feet, he stumbled forward and grabbed one off of the chess table, holding it aloft and declaring, “Spin the bottle!”

“ _Spin the bottle!_ Oh, I _love_ playing spin the bottle. I practically _invented_ spin the bottle,” Miles drawled eagerly, pushing himself to sit up on the couch beside Crowley – who, to his credit, looked rather confused.

“Wha’s spin the bottle?” he slurred, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair to get a better look at the object in Adam’s hand. Beside him, Miles gasped.

“Oh, you don’t _know!_ You poor darling; I keep forgetting that you never went to an Oxford party. Oh, now we _have_ to play it. _Nina!_ ” he shouted, rolling his eyes when she nearly spilled an entire bottle of wine upon having her name called. “Get over here; we’re all going to play spin the bottle!”

“Spin the bottle! Oh, how _fun,_ ” she agreed, hurrying over to join Agatha on the floor. Crowley still looked perplexed.

“How d'you play?” he asked, sliding himself down to sit on the floor across from Agatha. Miles, having helped Agatha to sit up, sat down on her other side, between her and Crowley. Taking the vacant spot at Crowley’s other side, Adam sat down and placed the empty vintage bottle in the center of their circle.

“It’s simple,” he explained, giving the bottle a spin for emphasis. “You spin the bottle, and then you kiss whoever it ends up pointing to.”

Furrowing his brow, Crowley looked down at Miles.

“Thought I said I wasn’t gonna kiss ‘em all?”

Giggling a bit nervously, Miles shook his head, gently patting Crowley’s hand.

“You don’t have to kiss _everyone_ , darling; just whoever the bottle ends up pointing to. It’s all in good fun.”

“The _most_ fun,” Nina agreed with a giddy smile. Adam seemed pleased as punch by her reaction.

“I want the first go,” Agatha declared, grinning as she leaned forward and gave the bottle a whirl, her disheveled blonde hair falling in her face in the process. After spinning and spinning and spinning for long enough that all of the drunk people staring at it began to regret deciding to play this game, given how dizzy they were all becoming, the bottle finally stopped.

It was pointing at Adam.

The poor chap looked rather disappointed, given he hadn’t suggested this game to kiss _Agatha_ , but he went along with it like a good sport. Leaning forward, he gave Agatha a quick peck on the lips, prompting her to giggle and shake her head.

“Oh, Adam, you _are_ a tease.”

Smirking in return, Adam tossed Agatha a wink before giving the bottle another spin, watching it go round and round and round –

\- until it landed on Miles.

This was not going at all how he had planned. Miles, however, looked _exceedingly_ amused.

“Come _here_ then, Adam, dear; share with the group who's the better kisser – me or Agatha?”

Beside him, Crowley smirked.

“Oh, alright…” Adam sighed resignedly, maneuvering around Crowley to press the briefest of kisses to Miles’ lips. He still tasted like absinthe. After a teasing moment of hemming and hawing, he declared, “I think I'll have to go with Aggie.”

Miles scoffed but Agatha just laughed gleefully, declaring, “Of course you do, angel! Everyone knows I’m the best kisser in all of London Town; otherwise, how would I find myself at so many shocking orgies?”

Crowley, who had just reached for his absinthe and taken a sip, nearly choked on his drink. Beside him, Miles gave the simple explanation of: “Chatterbox.”

Clearing his throat and nodding, he looked expectantly to Miles, who blinked for a moment before exclaiming, “Oh! I suppose this makes it my turn, doesn’t it?”

Smirking, he gave the bottle a very precise spin – but even the most precise of spins tend to be off by an inch or two. In this case, the bottle spun straight past Crowley, and past Agatha, until it finally landed on Nina.

_At the very least, the disdain on poor dear Adam’s face was hilariously worth it._

Chuckling, Miles crawled forward the necessary amount before taking Nina’s cheeks in his hands and leaning in, pressing a noisy, theatrical, pointed kiss to her lips. Behind him, he could hear Adam groan and was certain the poor boy was undoubtedly pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering why, _why_ he had ever suggested this game. Even back at Oxford it very rarely had worked out in his favor.

“I do wish you hadn’t drunk that wine, Nina, darling,” Miles tutted when they broke apart, patting her cheek affectionately. “It simply _ruined_ the absinthe, and whatever is the point of kissing you if I can’t even taste any licorice?”

“I am sorry, Miles, dear,” Nina cooed in return, tapping his nose with her index finger. “I’ll remember for next time.”

“You’d best do.”

Sitting back again between Crowley and Agatha, Miles relaxed and wiped Nina’s lipstick from his chin as she gave the bottle a whirl – only for him to end up tensing up again when it came to a stop.

_It made sense, really. He was the only one it hadn’t landed on yet. Logic dictates that it would land on him._

That didn’t, however, makes Miles feel any better when Nina crawled toward Crowley, cupping his cheeks and giving his face a onceover.

“You are a pretty one, aren’t you?” she asked before bending down – and the kiss that she gave him was _deep_. Not teasingly deep, like Miles’ had been, but a well and proper kiss. To his horror, Crowley _returned_ the kiss – and Miles wanted to blame it on the cocktail of wine, cocaine, and absinthe that was swirling through all of their veins, but even that rationale didn’t make his blood boil any less.

_Bloody Nina. She already had Adam. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with that?_

While Miles was turning red, Adam was turning green. If he didn't regret his suggested game before, he  _certainly_ regretted it now. Reaching over, Miles grabbed the nearest glass from the coffee table, not caring whose or what it was before hastily downing its contents. Finally, Nina parted from Crowley’s lips with a _pop_.

“Pretty _and_ a good kisser. With your buckets full of money, it’s a wonder you’re still a bachelor,” Nina cooed, prompting Adam to huff, Crowley to stutter, and Agatha to roll her eyes before muttering, “Really, Nina, you _are_ thick.”

Nina, just as she tended to say whatever she wanted, also only selectively heard what she wanted. Agatha’s comment went in one drunken ear and out the other.

Crowley spun the bottle. It landed on Agatha. They shared a quick peck, and then that was that.

_The game wasn’t feeling very fun anymore._

* * *

Despite her blunt flirting with Crowley, Nina had still insisted that Adam carry her upstairs to bed for fear that she may fall and break her neck. That only left Agatha and Miles in the parlor; Crowley had gone downstairs to check on the staff and make sure the storm wasn’t worrying anyone too much.

Miles, his head on Agatha’s shoulder, sniffled angrily. His eyes were red, due partially to the drugs still coursing through his bloodstream but more so due to the fact that he’d spent the past ten minutes crying.

“Three weeks. Three weeks of letters!”

“I know, darling.”

“ _I_ was supposed to kiss him; I was going to do it as soon as everyone went to bed!”

“I know, darling.”

“And then bloody _Nina_ saunters in and practically shags him right in front of me! And in front of _Adam!_ Oh, poor Adam…”

“Poor Adam is used to it by now,” Agatha countered, catching Miles’ tears with her thumb and wiping them on her trousers. “I do believe she fancies him, but she fancies being rich far more. I’m afraid she set her sights on dear Crowley.”

“Well, she can’t have him!” Miles snapped, his voice cracking, and Agatha shushed him softly while smoothing his curls back from his forehead.

“For what it’s worth, darling, I don’t really think she’ll go after him. She was quite drunk. The drunkest of us all, I believe.”

“Still, I’m never going to forgive her.”

“I know, darling.”

“The nerve, honestly!”

“I know, darling.”

“And for him to kiss her _back_ -!”

His voice breaking properly, Miles melted into another round of sobs. Agatha, frowning faintly, hugged him to her chest and kissed the top of his head, murmuring into his curls, “I know, darling. I know.”

* * *

After he’d thoroughly cried himself out, Agatha helped Miles up the stairs and into the guest room where he’d left all of his things early in the afternoon, when the sun was still shining and he didn’t feel like a miserable fool. After changing into a pair of blue silk pajamas and kissing Agatha goodnight on both cheeks, Miles shut the door and blew out the candle that rested on the mantle above the fireplace – before he pointedly turned on the electric lamp beside the bed, purely to spite Nina. If the place _did_ go up like a tinderbox, then it would serve her right.

Of course, the lamp light shining from underneath the door was rather deceptive.

It was late when Crowley finally made his way up the stairs after helping several of the servants put sand and towels down at the cracks of all the ground-level doors to keep the house from flooding. A glance at the grandfather clock facing the top of the stairs told him it was past two in the morning.

His head was pounding. He generally had a strict “ _don’t test what you sell_ ” policy about the drugs that he supplied; however, he also generally didn’t host parties at Gordon Park. Not about to be the only one _not_ high off his arse, he’d taken a hit or two.

Things had been going swimmingly until Adam suggested that they play that blasted game.

Everybody had been kissing, and it was all incredibly amusing and not at all serious, but then Nina had snogged him – _properly_ snogged him – and, being a man utterly high off his arse with uninhibited male instincts, Crowley had kissed her back. He’d been functioning on autopilot; it took his brain so long to catch up that, by the time he had the thought that he should pull away, the kiss was already over. It had been all he could do to stammer awkwardly before taking his turn, giving Agatha a polite peck, and then excusing himself to tend to the servants.

He’d hoped that Miles might wait up for him in the parlor, but the room was empty by the time he made it back upstairs, leaving him to blow out all of the candles before trudging up to the second floor. When he saw the light shining underneath Miles’ door, he’d felt a touch of hope - but, mostly, he just felt guilty. The only person he _wanted_ to kiss, and _had_ wanted to kiss for _weeks_ now, was Miles. Somehow he’d ended up kissing two completely different people right in front of him – one of which, he feared, had caused some damage. Knocking once at the door, he quietly opened it and peered inside.

Crowley felt his heart sink. While the bedside lamp was on, Miles was fast asleep, his head buried in one of the many goose-feather pillows. Sighing quietly, he considered just going to bed himself – but he’d made a promise, and he needed to keep it… _somehow._

Letting the door quietly fall shut, Crowley crossed the room and pulled the curtains closed; he knew Miles well enough by now to know he would be disgruntled if the sun woke him up too early in the morning. Of course, that was if the sun came out ever again; rain still hammered against the glass while thunder roared above their heads. Outside the window, lightning flashed in the distance.

Crossing over to the bed, Crowley flicked the lamp off, plunging the room into comfortable darkness. Every few seconds, the glow of lightning illuminated sections of the wall through cracks in the drapes. The wind howled.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Crowley made a point of tucking Miles in properly; the house was old, after all, and subsequently was terribly drafty. On a night like this especially, one could easily catch a chill. But the thunder didn’t wake Miles, nor did the lightning, nor did the moaning of the wind or a ghost at the window or terrifying dreams of a monster come to life. All of that would have been incredibly Byronic, but Miles wasn’t really Lord Byron and this wasn’t a poem.

What woke him up was the gentle press of Crowley’s lips to his forehead and an apology being mumbled against his skin.

Crowley’s cologne hit him when he took a startled breath, and his reaching out and grabbing onto Crowley’s now wrinkled silk shirt was entirely a knee-jerk reaction. When he slowly began to properly wake up, he blushed in the darkness and let him go.

“Shoo,” he mumbled, rolling over so he was facing the opposite side of the room. “I don’t want to see you, or speak to you, or…”

Behind him, the mattress sank slightly as Crowley sat down. After a moment, he hesitantly asked, “Would you forgive me if I said I was terribly high?”

“No.”

“What if I said you were right and her lips tasted vile?”

Miles seemed to consider this before shaking his head again and mumbling, “No.”

Hesitating, Crowley reached out to rest a hand at Miles’ shoulder. When his touch wasn’t shrugged away, he tenderly let his run down Miles' arm until he found his hand, tangling their fingers together like he did that night at the opera. It had only been three weeks and several letters ago, but it felt like so much longer.

“What if I told you the only lips I’ve wanted to kiss all day were yours?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Miles hesitantly squeezed Crowley’s hand, muttering, “…I may consider forgiving you – if you told me that.”

Shifting, Crowley sprawled out on the mattress behind Miles and draped an arm over his waist, their fingers still tangled while his other hand came up to play with his hair, delicately tracing the curve of Miles’ ear. Pressing a kiss just below it, he murmured, “What if I told you that I’ve wanted to kiss you since I dropped you off at your front door that night?”

His cheeks flushing, Miles whispered, “…then you would be getting warmer…”

Crowley’s next maneuver made Miles gasp. One moment he was wrapped around him, the next he had rolled Miles onto his back and was hovering above him, licking his lips before leaning down, their lips but an inch apart as he whispered, “What if I kissed you right now?”

Miles didn’t answer. Instead, he fulfilled his end of their letter-made bargain and arched up enough that he could close the distance between them and kiss Crowley first. Capturing his bottom lip while his fingers clutched at his forearms, Miles tugged Crowley closer.

This kiss wasn’t quite as heated as the others had been that night in the Bentley, given that Miles was still incredibly groggy and both were fighting off a drug-and-alcohol-induced haze, but it was still wonderful; it was exactly what they had both been yearning for. When they finally broke apart, Crowley shuffled underneath the blankets and curled himself around Miles, nuzzling his nose into his dark, messy curls.

“Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Melting into Crowley’s embrace, Miles sighed and rolled onto his side to better wrap his arms around the other, pressing a tender kiss to his collarbone (which was visible thanks to a few stylishly popped buttons).

“Everyone deserves a second chance, I suppose…” he mused cheekily, smiling against Crowley’s skin and repressing a quiet laugh when the redhead tickled his side.

Fully wrapped up in each other, without any fear of being seen or judged, Miles and Crowley drifted off to sleep.

Outside, the night seemed to grow darker - for the storm was just beginning.


	4. I'll Fall Apart Beyond a Kiss (a Castaway Upon Your Lips)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Miles appears mere moments away from murdering Nina with a teaspoon, Crowley elects to whisk him away for a day (and night) of alone time in South Downs. (Fair warning: things get spicy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is worth noting that I know absolutely nothing about how to drive British cars from the 1920s. Bear with me; the fluff is worth any logistical errors, I promise. 
> 
> Chapter title is taken from "The Death of Me" by Marianas Trench - and if you haven't listened to _Phantoms_ yet, then that's a mistake that you really need to rectify.

The storm had raged well into the night, with rain hammering against every unsheltered surface and lightning striking down more than one tree in neighboring towns, but finally, at around seven, the conditions began to let up. By nine it was positively sunny, and by ten-thirty Crowley was stirring to the sound of songbirds chirping outside of the window. It was a much pleasanter sound than the roaring of thunder, if he did say so himself.

Miles, on the other hand, was still fast asleep and undoubtedly would have been content to stay that way until well into the afternoon. It was customary after a particularly wild night to allow the body time to recuperate; Lady Maitland had taught him that. It was one of her many essential life lessons, along with always carrying a mirror should a hair fall out of place, and never travelling with any less than eight party and/or dinner appropriate outfits – one for each day of the week, and a spare. It didn’t matter if you were only planning to be away for an afternoon; one could simply never be _too_ prepared.

Presently, Miles was lounging rather prettily against Crowley’s chest, his dark curls resembling a messy halo and his long eyelashes resting against his cheekbones. No, he wasn’t _rather_ pretty – he was _very_ pretty. With his lips parted just so and his soft breathing tickling Crowley’s collarbone, he found himself experiencing a rather overwhelming desire to _kiss him._

Thus, Miles did not get to sleep well into the afternoon, as Lady Maitland would have liked – but he certainly wasn’t loath to allow the interruption.

He was roused from a perfectly peaceful slumber by the feeling of several kisses being pressed in tender intervals to what felt like every inch of his face while Crowley’s fingers traced tantalizing patterns up and down the length of his spine, and he couldn’t help but shiver and curl his toes with delight beneath the sheets. Taking in a breath to say something cheeky, he opened his eyes –

\- only to have every cheeky word die on his lips when Crowley captured them in a warm, deep, _pointed_ kiss. Exhaling a soft noise that fell somewhere between surprise and pleasure, Miles wound his fingers into Crowley’s soft red hair and kissed him back with equal vigor, pressing every available inch of his body down against his. Crowley was quick to respond, using his arms around Miles to flip them over in a tangle of limbs and silk sheets, pinning him to the mattress as his tongue delved between Miles’ parted lips and drew a moan from somewhere deep inside of him. When he was positively breathless and simply couldn’t handle anymore, he gave a small tug at Crowley’s hair, gasping quietly when the redhead proceeded to kiss along his jawline and his throat instead.

“That’s certainly one way to wake a person up…” Miles all but cooed, tipping his head back into the downy softness of the pillows while a breathlessly _happy_ giggle escaped him. He could feel Crowley smirk against his neck in response to the sound; he _did_ seem to like the sound of his laughter and, though small, that little fact pleased Miles immensely. No one had ever relished in making him laugh before…

“Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone,” Crowley mused as he continued the journey of his lips, trailing them back up the side of Miles’ neck until he was able to press a kiss just below his ear, murmuring, “Call it an extended apology and a ‘good morning’ all in one.”

Drawing back enough to look down at Miles, Crowley’s lips quirked up even further as he repeated, “Good morning.”

His gaze and his smile both soft, Miles reached up to cup both of Crowley’s cheeks in his hands, sighing happily before he mused, “Good morning to you, my dearest darling…”

His smile growing impossibly bright, Crowley bent down to capture Miles’ lips in another, softer kiss, letting this one linger until a quiet knock sounded at the door. Begrudgingly parting, Crowley turned his head and looked toward the offending noise.

“Yes?”

“Master Crowley, sir?” a female voice asked on the other side without actually opening the door, “Mrs. Hawthorne sent me up to see if Mr. Maitland planned to come down to breakfast or if I should bring a tray up.”

Smirking, Crowley shook his head, brushing his lips tenderly against Miles’ forehead before responding, “I just popped in to wake him; we’ll be down soon.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” he called toward the retreating footsteps, humming and lowering his lips until they were a mere inch away from touching Miles’.

“Now, where was I…?”

* * *

Of course, while Miles and Crowley were relatively-early risers (if nearly eleven a.m. could be considered "early"), the rest of their crew were not. Adam was the only one seated at the table when the two finally decided to grace the breakfast room with their presence, roughly forty minutes after Maggie had summoned them – not that any of the staff truly minded. After years of employment both at Gordon Park and the Mayfair flat, they were used to the odd hours (and company) that “Master Crowley” tended to keep; he had a habit of lying down to take a nap and not bothering to crawl out of bed for three days, sometimes four. They simply kept the house tidy, the kettle on, and dinner made for whenever he decided he was hungry enough to rise. Really, he made their jobs very easy; he wasn’t a difficult man to please.

“ _Good morning_ , old chap,” Miles cheerfully greeted Adam, who was leafing through the morning newspaper; Adam, looking up from said paper, grinned curiously as he took the pair in. Crowley had changed from yesterday’s wrinkled red shirt and trousers into a non-wrinkled white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, along with a smart grey vest, matching (tightly tailored) trousers, and a black tie with gold embroidery; the shade matched the opaque gold sunglasses he had opted for, which rested comfortably near the end of his nose. Miles, on the other hand, looked rather disheveled; his white trousers, white shirt, and baby blue knit-vest were all neat enough, but his bowtie was askew and his curls were still a mess - as if he had repeatedly run his fingers through them (or someone else had done so).

Watching briefly as the two helped themselves to toast and eggs, Adam looked back down at his newspaper with his grin still in place, musing, “You seem happy this morning, Miles.”

“Of _course_ I’m happy; why on earth wouldn’t I be?” he asked, taking a seat at Crowley’s right side after the other gentleman sat in his usual seat at the head of the table. Peter, one of the footmen, came in at that precise moment with hot tea for the new arrivals.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Adam hummed, smirking again as he continued to read. “According to this, periwinkle has gone out of style again; I’d have thought that would be positively detrimental.”

“Don’t be _ridiculous_ , Adam, dear,” Miles scoffed, adding two sugars to his tea before stirring it delicately. “Periwinkle will never go out of style; it’s a perfect shade for winter and for spring, and lies just in the middle when one can’t decide whether to wear blue or purple. Not to mention, you simply _cannot_ believe everything you read.” Turning his nose up, he added, “Especially not if _Simon_ is writing it.”

“Come now, Miles; Simon isn’t all that bad. He’s just trying to make an honest living,” Adam countered and Miles scoffed again, tearing a slice of toast in half.

“Honest? _Honest?_ That is certainly not the word that _I_ would use to describe what _dear old Simon_ has been up to these past few years.”

Having been watching the exchange over the brim of his sunglasses, teacup suspending halfway to his lips, Crowley finally asked, “Which one is Simon again? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“No, darling, and pray that you never do,” Miles huffed as he took a bite of his toast.

Giving his head a shake, Adam folded his newspaper up before explaining, “Simon Balcairn; he’s an old friend of ours-” Miles scoffed. “-who writes for the _Daily Herald_.”

“He’s _Mr. Chatterbox_ , darling, and he is _not_ our friend,” Miles cut in, shaking his head, and Adam rolled his eyes.

“He’s _my_ friend, Miles, and he used to be your friend, too. You can’t expect me to take sides in this little tiff you’re having.”

“Tiff? _Little tiff?_ Have you already forgotten what he wrote about me six months back? Implying that I was cavorting about with that Hampstead photographer!”

“You _were_ cavorting about with that Hampstead photographer, if I remember correctly,” Adam remarked, picking up his fork to finish what was left of his eggs, and Miles sniffed primly, sipping his tea.

“Yes, well. For reasons that I’m sure you can understand, we didn’t exactly want the whole of London knowing our business. It was bloody lucky there was no proof to back up those outlandish stories he printed; poor Charlie had to leave London after it all hit the presses. Heaven only knows where he’s at now, and all because _Simon_ wanted to make a quick penny.”

“He could have given them the photos from the Paradiso party, but he didn’t,” Adam made a point to remind Miles, but it was a weak defense at best. The damage had still been done and Miles would never invite Simon Balcairn out anywhere ever again. “You really should try and forgive him. You know what a sticky spot he’s been in ever since they had to start selling off his family’s estate. Not to mention all of his father’s debts that he still needs to pay off…”

“Simon Balcairn is a _rat_ , Adam. A rat, plain and simple. I felt for him, I really did, and then he goes and throws me to the wolves to make his life a tad easier! What sort of a friend does a thing like that? No; I’ll never speak to him again as long as I live. Poor Mother was in a _state_ over it all.”

“Over the _truth_ , Miles,” Adam intoned, frowning slightly. Miles huffed.

“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her, Adam; what she could learn, however, just might.”

Adam didn’t have anything to say in response to that, and thus the argument ended. Crowley couldn’t help feeling relieved when Agatha breezed in to break the tension that had filled the room.

“Good morning, darlings! Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I see.”

Taking a cup of tea from Peter, she walked over and kissed the top of Miles’ head before taking the vacant seat at his side, asking, “Feeling better this morning, pet?”

“I’ve never felt better, dearest,” Miles decreed, his easy smile returning as he kissed Agatha’s cheek, taking another bite of his toast afterward with a smirk. Returning his smirk, Agatha took in his messy curls before reaching over to straighten his bowtie.

“I daresay you look rather angelic. There’s something aglow about you,” she declared before turning her attention back to her tea. Miles preened.

“Perhaps it’s the sunshine,” he mused innocently, nudging Crowley’s foot beneath the table as he spoke. “I do so love a fine day after a wicked storm.”

“Don’t we all?” Crowley asked with the ghost of a smirk as he sipped his tea and picked at his breakfast. Miles felt that he was so happy that he could burst – and then he did. Burst, that is – metaphorically.

Nina had chosen that precise moment to wander in, still in her pink dressing gown and slippers, a hand to her head as she mewled. She clearly had a dreadful hangover and that was the only thing about her presence that brought Miles any joy. Mostly, the sight of her just made his blood boil all over again, as it had last night before he broke down.

“Must it be so dreadfully _bright_ in here, darlings? My head is positively _pounding_ ,” she complained, sitting at the other end of the table near Adam. For once, Adam didn’t smile; last night’s wound was evidently still smarting for him, as well.

“It’s called the _sun_ , Nina, dear,” Miles quipped, his voice venomous and his gaze like ice even as his graceful smile remained in place. Yet another lesson he learned from Lady Maitland; never let anyone see you waver. “I’m afraid no one can control that.”

“Couldn’t you close the curtains?” she asked and Peter, ever the diligent servant and eager to please, made to do just that. Miles, his eyes narrowing, was quick to stop him.

“That won’t be necessary, dear boy; the sunlight is doing us all a world of good after yesterday’s gloom. If Nina wishes to seclude herself in darkness, she can do it elsewhere.”

“Oh, Miles, don’t be so _beastly_ ,” Nina groaned, placing her head in her hands to block out the light. “You can be such a _brat_ and I’m in no state to squabble with you today.”

Miles looked ready to pop, his face flushing bright red, and poor Peter looked utterly at a loss for what to do. A request had been contradicted by a command, neither of which came from the master of the house, whom he anxiously looked to for direction. Sensing that a proper scene was about to unfold, one that he would undoubtedly be dragged into and which would ruin the thus far pleasant morning, Crowley quickly intervened.

“Peter, if you would kindly close the drapes-” he began, nudging Miles’ foot pointedly beneath the table when his head whipped around and his eyes flashed at Crowley’s contradiction, “-and Miles, do you remember that shop that I told you about? The one a few miles down the road from here?”

Some of the fire sizzling out of his gaze, Miles furrowed his brow thoughtfully at the strange interjection as Peter drew the drapes shut. Thinking back through nearly a month’s worth of letters, Miles asked, “The one that sells fountain pens and feather pillows?”

“Among other things,” Crowley confirmed, finishing his tea before rising to his feet. “I thought we’d take a jaunt down there today, just you and I; I’d offer to bring everyone else along, but with your tendency to accumulate a wide array of shopping bags, I’m not sure we’ll all fit by the end of the day.”

“Oh, that _is_ smart,” Agatha agreed, grinning at Miles. “He knows you to a tee, darling.”

Blushing slightly, Miles fidgeted with a gold cufflink engraved with an “M” before nodding.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing what this little town of yours has to offer,” he conceded, his anger having boiled away as quickly as it rose under Crowley’s expert distraction; it was something one tended to be good at, growing up as a pickpocket.

“It’s settled, then,” Crowley agreed, checking his pocket-watch for the time. “We’ll head out now and make a day of it, and then everyone else can tag along tomorrow once you’ve had your fill of all the shops.”

Shrugging, unable to argue with that suggestion (especially if it meant spending a day alone with Crowley), Miles got to his feet and finished his own tea while Adam asked, “What shall we do while you two are away?”

“Whatever you like,” Crowley stated as he pocketed his watch again. Nodding toward Nina, he remarked, “I would suggest Miss Blount go back to bed until that nasty hangover has passed; after that, the estate is yours to peruse. The gardens, the pond, the stables-”

“Stables?” Agatha asked, perking up significantly. “You have horses? Miles never said you have horses.”

“I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it, actually,” Crowley admitted, adjusting his sunglasses and arching an eyebrow with a small smirk. “You like horses?”

“Oh, I _adore_ horses,” Agatha agreed, smiling as she picked apart a crisp piece of bacon. “Granny had an entire stable of jumpers when I was young, but I haven’t ridden in years. She sold them all off after Grandpapa passed away; there wasn’t much joy in keeping them for her after that.”

“Well, you have free reign over all of them here,” Crowley remarked, smirking at his own pun before turning and walking from the breakfast room, calling back, “Come along, Miles; we’re wasting daylight, mulling about.”

Perfectly happy to obey, Miles trailed after him. Back at the breakfast table, head still in her hands, Nina groaned before airily mumbling, “Poor Miles seemed upset with me. I can’t for the life of me imagine why…”

* * *

“You know, I barely got to finish my breakfast. Why were you in such a hurry to get away?” Miles asked once he and Crowley were safely in the Bentley, driving along the private road that connected Gordon Park to the town. Miles was presently poking about in the glove box, which was seemingly filled with sunglasses - and, settling on a pair with blue lenses that matched his knit-vest almost perfectly, Miles grinned as he slid them onto his nose.

“You looked about twelve seconds away from murdering Nina with a teaspoon,” Crowley stated plainly as he drove, his hands clad in leather driving gloves that accentuated his long, elegant, piano-player fingers. Biting his lip momentarily as he fixated on them, Miles shook himself from his reverie when he realized what Crowley had said.

“She would have deserved it if I had,” he huffed, examining his own fingernails with a pointed frown. “She called me _beastly_ and a _brat_ after… after _what she did!_ Honestly, the _nerve_ of her – and sitting next to poor Adam, too, as if nothing had happened!”

“Have you considered that perhaps she doesn’t _remember_ what happened?” Crowley asked, arching an eyebrow and casting a glance in Miles’ direction. “She’d had more to drink than all of us combined, if her hangover is any indication. If she doesn’t remember, I say let it drop. Let bygones be bygones.”

“You sound like Adam,” Miles remarked, still frowning. “Am I meant to forgive _everyone_ who wrongs me? Why on _earth_ would I do that?”

“Because what she did doesn’t _matter_ ,” Crowley interposed, rolling his eyes slightly behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “ _I_ don’t care that she kissed me; I’m neither bothered nor affected by it. I have no desire to kiss her again. It was an incident - an  _accident_ - bred by cocaine, absinthe, and too much wine, and it won’t be repeated. So tell me, Miles, why _wouldn’t_ you forgive one of your dearest friends a silly drunken transgression that caused no real harm?”

Miles was quiet for a long moment. In fact, he was quiet for so long that Crowley debated taking it all back and telling Miles that he could despise whomever he wished; it really didn’t matter to him in the least; but then Miles spoke up.

“If I forgive the people who have wronged me, I’m opening the door for them to do it again. Perhaps this time with pictures.”

_It was clear that he wasn’t talking about Nina._

Simon’s betrayal had hurt. Miles covered it up well with aloofness and haughty apathy toward the other young man's financial situation, but he’d been cut deeply by what he did. Simon Balcairn had been one of his oldest and dearest friends; they had all played together as children, and Simon had been the one who, for the first time, made Miles realize that he fancied boys. Of course, Simon hadn’t felt the same way – and he made it painfully clear at Oxford when they got drunk together on bad French wine and Miles tried to kiss him – but Miles had never, in a million years, anticipated that Simon would betray him like that - that he would _out_ him like that just to make easy money. Miles could have _given_ him money if things were truly so bad, but instead Simon published a vile article airing his dirty laundry to the world, and it cost Miles someone that he held dear at the time.

The thought that, if he forgave Simon, Crowley could be the one he lost next was too terrifying to bear and certainly too horrible to risk. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do it, no matter how often Adam asked him to. Adam simply didn’t understand. He was so intelligent, and yet he was still so _dense_ about all the things that mattered…

“This ‘Charlie’ bloke… You two were close?” Crowley asked, vocalizing what he had been wondering since listening to Miles and Adam bicker over tea and toast and tabloid articles. Miles blushed.

“Not as close as you and I,” he assured Crowley before he could begin to worry, resting a hand on his knee, “but… yes. We met at an art gala in Hampstead late last winter; he was a photographer, with such a clever eye, and his work showed it.”

Pursing his lips, Miles took a breath before continuing. “He took some photographs of me because I asked him to - nothing _scandalous_ , although that’s what everyone assumes. I just… wanted to see myself the way he saw me. I fail to see why that’s so ghastly.”

“It isn’t,” Crowley quietly assured him, reaching down to take Miles’ hand from his knee and tangle their fingers instead, pressing a comforting kiss to his knuckles. Beside him, Miles’ tense shoulders relaxed.

“Well, that’s not how all of London saw it. Simon printed that bloody article and divulged _everything_ I had told him in confidence about Charlie, and about the photos, only he made it all sound… so _base_ and _immoral_. The way he wrote me, and how he calls me _Miles Malpractice_ every other week, practically _begged_ everyone to use their imaginations and assume the worst of me."

Swallowing a lump that had gathered in his throat, Miles took a breath before continuing.

"He had a photo of me holding Charlie’s hand at a party from ages back that he _could_ have used, but didn’t, and he _loves_ to remind us all of that - as if it makes him _virtuous_. He _could_ have ruined me completely, but he chose to only ruin me _a little_. Never mind that the rumors meant everyone stopped buying Charlie’s work and he ran off; I never got so much as a note from him after he disappeared. He probably thinks I had a hand in what happened.” His face falling, Miles added, “I suppose I did. But not _intentionally_. I never thought Simon would…”

His voice cracking, Miles trailed off and stared at his fingers tangled with Crowley’s in his lap while a stubborn tear trickled down his cheek. He angrily wiped it away; he didn’t want to cry over this again. He’d already wasted months doing precisely that. He was _happy_ now, happy with Crowley, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Simon Balcairn ruin it for him.

Squeezing Miles’ hand in his, Crowley took a deep breath. _Surely Adam couldn’t know the extent of what happened and still be badgering Miles to just let it all go?_

"You don’t have to forgive that bastard,” Crowley stated, comfortingly brushing his thumb over Miles’ knuckles, not unlike the way Miles had done for him at the opera, “but you _should_ forgive Nina. She was off her head, Miles; I don’t think she meant to hurt you.”

“Yes, well…” Sniffling quietly, Miles took a shaky breath, choosing not to take the subject further. He was immensely grateful when they arrived in town and parked in front of the shop Crowley had mentioned back at the house; it would give him something to focus on that didn’t make him either burst into tears or want to strangle someone.

It _was_ a nice shop, run by a kind, portly little blonde woman who affectionately pinched Crowley’s cheek when they walked in and asked how he was getting on.

It was no coincidence that she was here, in this town, in this particular shop, for Crowley knew her quite well and had for a very long time. Long before he came to South Downs – long before he even set sail for America. Her name was Esther, and he knew her from his days as nothing more than a lowly street urchin. She'd been around forty when he was ten and made her meager living selling flowers on the street during the day - the same street where Crowley used to pick pockets - and selling her body when the sun went down and the street lamps were lit. It was a miserable existence, truly; one of the worst. But her husband had been killed in the war and there was very little else that she could do; they’d been bad off to begin with, long before he died.

Crowley, having always possessed a generous heart even when he had so little, often made a point of using some of the profits from whatever he managed to nick on a given day to buy some of Esther’s flowers; in return, the little woman showered him with affection and, when she could afford it, hot cocoa. Esther, in many ways, filled the gap left by the mother Crowley had lost. They wrote letters back and forth while he was away overseas and, when he finally made his fortune, he made a point of setting Esther up comfortably in South Downs, not far from Gordon Park, so she could live out the rest of her days in peace and without any worries. Very few things made Anthony J. Crowley happier than seeing other people happy; it was likely why he loved hearing Miles laugh so very much.

After having his cheek thoroughly pinched, Crowley grinned and – rather to Miles’ surprise, given they were in public in broad daylight – took Miles’ hand.

“Esther, I’d like you to meet Miles Maitland.”

“Of the _Metroland Maitlands?_ My, my… You always did like fancy things, didn’t you?” Esther asked with clear fondness, smiling broadly, “And he _is_ fancy. A very pretty little thing.”

Miles, unsure of how, exactly, he was meant to respond, blushed and stammered, “I… thank you?”

Chuckling to himself, Crowley gave Miles hand a squeeze before explaining, “Miles, this is Esther Sundholm. I’ve known her for ages; she’s the closest thing that I have to a mother.”

His eyes widening, Miles gasped quietly.

“Oh! Oh, you really _must_ forgive me; Crowley didn’t – that is, he must have forgotten-”

“-to tell you about me?” Esther finished, smirking and shaking her head as she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “That’s just like little Tony; once he sets his eyes on something that sparkles, he’s liable to forget his own head - and your eyes _do_ rather have a sparkle to them…”

Miles blushed a deeper shade of pink.

“Anyhow, I wouldn’t expect any less,” Esther mused as she bustled about, straightening a display of ladies’ beads as she spoke. “Once he starts waxing poetic, there’s no fitting anything in between. The girls all nearly lost their heads once he sprouted up and turned into such a handsome, witty young thing.”

There was a great deal to unpack in all that was being said to him so quickly. Blinking, Miles tried to muddle his way through it all. Firstly, Crowley had evidently attracted the attention of young ladies as a boy – and, from his bemused expression at Esther’s storytelling, the attraction may have been reciprocated. That’s not something that Miles had considered possible before. He’d always just assumed you fancied one or the other. Fancying boys _alone_ had been confusing enough for him growing up; he couldn’t even  _imagine_ the turmoil of fancying _both_. He’d just assumed, when Crowley rejected feeling any attraction to Nina, that he was just like him – but, one should never assume…

And then there was the, er... more _pressing_ matter at hand.

“Crowley,” Miles whispered, taking advantage of Esther being distracted by tidying up a hat display that her last customer had put in disarray. “Does… Does she _know?_ About you and I?”

“Of course she knows,” Crowley confirmed, seemingly confused by the question. “She knows everything about me; I’ve never kept a secret from her or told her a lie. _Well,_ aside from one time…” Sniffing, he whispered, “She asked me if I liked this pink hat she’d bought, with a great big bunch of goose feathers on it. It was ghastly, but it was one of the first things she bought with the money she earned here, so I told her I fancied it.”

Crowley put a finger to his lips to indicate that Miles not disclose his secret, but Miles found that he couldn’t disclose much of anything at the moment; he was struck dumb. Esther _knew_ Crowley fancied boys (as well as girls)? She knew and she was accepting of it? Of him? Crowley hadn’t been terrified to tell her the truth? Her, the woman he essentially considered a mother?

He couldn’t imagine it. It made Miles feel a bit heartsick, in truth; he would never have that kind of relationship with his own mother, and they were connected by flesh and blood. Miles adored Lady Maitland, but… he could never be _honest_ with her. Not about this.

In fact, he was quite sure Lady Maitland still had her heart set on him either marrying Agatha or Nina. _Good, fun, respectable girls_ – that’s what she called them. She already looked at them both like daughters; it would have been a simple enough transition to calling one of them her daughter-in-law. But her Miles was “a free spirit”; he wouldn’t be tied down until he was good and ready.

The mere implication of what Simon Balcairn had printed about her son had rendered her bedridden for a week.

The tragic truth of it all was that Miles would gladly be tied down for the rest of his days to someone as good and warm as Crowley, were such things allowed. It was all so painfully… _painful_.

“Esther, dear, have you got any scarves?” Miles found himself asking in an effort to regain control of his mind, smiling slightly when she exclaimed, “Oh, yes, sweet’eart! A brand new bunch just in from Spain. The finest silk you’ll ever lay your hands on…”

Miles gladly followed her through the shop and toward the array of scarves, settling on a blue one that matched his vest and which Esther affectionately declared “would bring out his pretty eyes.” She was so  _kind - and accepting._ It left Miles feeling incredibly warm inside as they spent the rest of their morning and a good chunk of the afternoon browsing the rest of the town and all it had to offer.

Just as Crowley had anticipated, the back of the Bentley was quickly filled with bags, boxes, and wrapped parcels containing (but not limited to) three new suits – one black, one cadet grey, and one cream – that would be sharply fitted by Crowley’s favourite tailor when they returned to London; four new pairs of shoes, a jaunty hat, and several ties that would complement the suits; a set of sapphire cufflinks and a silver tie-pin; and a fetching landscape painted by a local artist of Gordon Park, so that even when he was in London Miles could always feel like a part of him was still in South Downs.

“ _Is that terribly cheesy?_ ” “ _No. I think it’s nice._ ”

He was still feeling warm and ever-so-happy while they sat in the patio area of a small café, sharing a vintage Bordeaux between them while they ate an early dinner. The sun was still shining, warming the chilly early-spring air, and it was all quite lovely. While he had been skeptical upon first stepping off the train, Miles was beginning to really rather enjoy being in the country. He did love the glitz and parties of his city lifestyle, but he didn’t think he would mind coming to live here…

…so long as it was with Crowley.

Sighing softly, Miles pushed what was left of his steak around on his plate, trailing his fork through the rich burgundy sauce as he asked, “Do you ever wonder how different life would be if things were… different?”

Sipping his wine, Crowley smirked around the rim of his glass, crooning, “I’m afraid you’ll need to be a touch more specific.”

“Oh, I just… _you know_ ,” Miles sighed again, lowering both his fork and his voice. “If people like us could just be allowed to be _happy._ If we could be together like any other pair of people who fancy each other. If we didn’t have to feel so bloody… _paranoid_ all the time. I hate it. I hate feeling like I have a dirty secret just because I care for someone. It’s _unfair_.”

“No one ever said life was fair, angel,” Crowley quipped, piggybacking upon Agatha’s astute observation from earlier that morning. He grinned when the pet-name made Miles blush quite prettily. Setting his wine glass down, able to tell just from a look at Miles eyes, although hidden behind blue glass, that he wasn’t satisfied with that answer, Crowley added, “I just mean to say that, in an ideal world, everyone would be allowed to be happy – but this world isn’t ideal. Happiness is rare, and it always comes with some sort of cost.”

Lowering his own voice, Crowley added, “If secrecy is the price that I have to pay to be with you, then so be it. I’d pay far more; the happiness is worth it.”

Miles suddenly found himself blinking back tears for the second time that day – but, this time, it wasn’t because his happiness had been compromised. He also felt like he was about to burst for the second time that day – this time with something warm and all-encompassing. He’d never felt anything so _wonderful_ before.

“My darling…” he whispered, his voice catching, and he exhaled a shaky laugh when Crowley responded by pouring him more wine. He really _did_ know him ever so well, and after only a few months. Somehow, those few months had begun to feel like a lifetime; like they had always known each other; like all of this was…

… _fate_.

* * *

It was nearly sunset when Crowley passed out of the town limits and onto his own private, expansive stretch of land – thus, Miles was baffled when Crowley chose to bring the Bentley to a stop.

“Dearest, what _are_ you doing?” he asked, glancing at the road ahead; it was still a reasonably long drive before they would grace the gates of the Gordon Park estate. “It’s getting late; we really should be getting back. I can only imagine what sort of trouble those three have gotten up to in our absence…”

“Adam seems to be a perfectly level-headed chap; I doubt he’d let anything too terrible come to pass,” Crowley mused, which prompted Miles to titter.

“You really don’t know Adam very well at all, darling.”

“No matter,” Crowley hummed, stretching his fingers out before beginning to pluck off his gloves. “You know, I’ve grown rather weary of driving for the day.”

“You’ve what?” Miles asked with a nervous laugh, unable to ascertain where this could possibly be going. Crowley, tired of driving? Miles had long ago accepted that the redheaded gentleman would always care for the Bentley just a touch more than he cared for him; it was practically an extended piece of his physiology. That Crowley could _tire_ of driving seemed preposterous.

“I’ve wearied of it,” Crowley repeated before dropping his driving gloves – rather suggestively – into Miles lap, but it didn’t appear to be suggestive of anything _fun_. When Crowley spoke again, Miles knew he’d been right to be apprehensive. “Drive me home, won’t you?”

“Are you _mad?_ Has the sun fried your brain? Crowley, I can’t _driv_ e-”

“Sure you can.”

“ _No_ , I _can’t_. I mean it. I really and truly cannot. I don’t know how.”

“You’ve _never_ driven before?”

“Never.”

“Miles, you’re nearly thirty! Surely you _must_ have driven at least _once_.”

“I’ve never had to!” Miles huffed, his cheeks turning pink as he attempted to hand Crowley back his driving gloves. “We have a chauffeur for a reason – and, when he isn’t on hand, I take cabs. It’s… one of the luxuries of having money, I suppose; you never have to drive yourself anywhere.”

“But driving is _fun_ ,” Crowley interjected, pushing the gloves back into Miles' hands and, when he tried again to give them back, Crowley made a point of slipping them onto Miles’ fingers before he could protest.

“Crowley, _really_ – I _can’t!_ ”

Watching with wide, almost terrified eyes as Crowley got out of the car and walked over to open the passenger’s side door, Miles exhaled a noise rather like a whimper when he pulled it open.

“I’ll _kill us_. I’ll kill us, and you still haven’t kissed me in the rain! You _promised_ you would, and-”

“It’s a straight stretch of road with nothing for you to hit until we reach the gates, Miles. There’s quite literally no possible way you can kill us – and, if you do this for me, I’ll kiss you wherever you want.”

It was clear from Crowley’s tone that he wasn’t just talking about weather conditions or a location, and it made Miles gulp. It was cruel, really, for him to be so impossibly tempting…

“You won’t let me crash?”

“I won’t let you crash.”

“You promise?”

“I _swear_ ,” he agreed, taking Miles by the hand and giving him a gentle tug out of the car. Once he was standing, Crowley pressed a kiss to the tip of Miles' nose and offered him a cheeky smile. “Go on, then; the driver’s seat awaits.”

“Oh, you _are_ impossible…” Miles muttered, walking around the car to claim Crowley’s usual spot, flexing his fingers in the driving gloves. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible. After all, how hard could it be? Agatha convinced Granny Runcible’s chauffeur to teach her back when they were still teenagers – and Miles had always possessed the mantra that anything Aggie could do, he could do better. (She tended to agree.)

Once they had fully swapped seats, with Miles clutching the steering wheel, they sat for a moment before Crowley intoned, “You’ve got to start the engine, love.”

Blushing, clearly flustered, Miles fluttered about for a moment, muttering, “Right, yes, of course; the engine. I knew that…”

After letting him stew for roughly twenty-five seconds, Crowley reached over and helpfully turned the key, bringing the Bentley to life. Miles blushed even brighter.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Crowley teased, clearly all too amused by this entire situation. He would make a self-sufficient man of his oh-so-pampered loverboy yet – even if that meant simply teaching him to drive a car and how to make toast and tea on his own. Baby steps. Nodding at Miles reassuringly, he explained, “Now, you need to shift gears if you want to start moving; press down on the clutch-”

“What’s a clutch?”

“Peddle to your far right, darling.”

“Ah.”

“You need to press down on the clutch and use this-” Taking Miles' hand, Crowley placed it on the gear shift, “-to shift gears. Are you pressing it?”

“I think so?”

“Alright, then. Keep pressing it, and-” Having started to guide Miles’ hand atop the gearshift, Crowley grimaced when the Bentley’s gears ground together in a very unpleasant-sounding way.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?”

“…not exactly,” Crowley disagreed, giving Miles’ hand a squeeze. “You’ve got to _really_ press the clutch down to the floor for this to work the way it should. Can you do that?”

Once again, Miles rather anxiously responded, “…I think so?”

“Just try. All you can do is try. Are you ready?”

Nodding, Miles focused all of his attention on pressing the clutch down to the floor. This time, when Crowley guided his hand, it _didn’t_ sound like the poor Bentley was being tortured, which was progress.

“Good! See, you’re a natural,” Crowley purred, knowing Miles well enough by now to know that compliments were the surest way to ensure his confidence. As he anticipated, Miles preened.

“Now what?”

“Now, you take your foot off the clutch and step on the gas-”

Miles did so and the car lurched forward unpleasantly, prompting Miles to take his foot off of the pedal too abruptly, which prompted more gear-grinding. He made a distressed little noise.

“- _gently_ ,” Crowley finished on an exhale, giving Miles’ hand another squeeze. “Step on the gas _gently_.”

“You said to press it to the floor!”

“I said to press the _clutch_ to the floor; there’s a difference. Try it again.”

Taking a deep breath, Miles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before reopening them and giving it another go; this time the Bentley slid with relative smoothness down the road, although still with mild gear-grinding. The fact that it was only _mild_ seemed to be enough for Miles, though, because he giddily exclaimed while the car slowly rolled forward, “I’m doing it! I’m _driving!_ ”

“That you are,” Crowley confirmed amusedly, chuckling softly as they puttered along. He felt a small wash of pride that he hadn’t quite been expecting, along with that increasingly familiar glow that always seemed to accompany making Miles Maitland happy. He felt it that second night, when Miles’ face had lit up upon seeing him at his birthday party, and since then the feeling had only grown warmer.

The lesson was going swimmingly, with Crowley teaching Miles the importance of breaking – “ _you know, so you don’t die; since you’re so concerned about that_ ” – and it was looking like the perfect end to a perfect day.

Then the car died.

No spluttering, no gear-grinding, it just… _stopped_ – went dead – conked out – and then Crowley _remembered_.

He knew there was something that he’d meant to do this morning, but his impromptu snogging session in Miles’ bed had rather derailed any thoughts of productivity, as had his emergency extraction mission with the intent of keeping Nina un-stabbed.

_In all the hustle, bustle and fuss, he forgot to put gas in the car._

“What did I do?” Miles asked, repeating the question with increasing panic, “ _Oh!_ What did I do?!”

Despite his best efforts, Crowley started to laugh. Then he continued to laugh. Then he kept on laughing until he had to pull off his sunglasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. Poor Miles still looked panicked, so Crowley quickly said, “Nothing, love; you didn’t do anything. It’s my fault.”

“ _Your_ fault? You’re not even driving!”

“No, but cars do need gas to run.”

Pausing, letting that information sink in, Miles mumbled, “…oh.”

Then they both started laughing.

It was all completely, utterly, bloody _hilarious_ to them in that moment, with the sun sinking over the horizon and bathing them both in a warm, golden glow – so warm that, leaning over and pulling the sunglasses from Miles’ face, Crowley gave into the pressing urge to take his cheeks in his hands and kiss him. He kissed him through their continued laughter at the absurdity of it all, and he kissed him while he smiled and they melted together; he kissed him until they were both breathless.

Then, of course, they realized that they still needed to get back to the house, with several kilometers between their current location and their end goal and no way to call for help. They had no choice; they had to abandon the Bentley and make the rest of the journey down the road on foot. Thankfully, they were already far enough from town that Crowley wasn’t overly concerned about leaving his car until morning, nor was Miles concerned about leaving his precious parcels.

In fact, even the darkness that enveloped them as they walked, hand in hand, wasn’t all that concerning. There was something rather unpleasant about walking around London in the dark; you always felt that there was someone waiting in the shadows, eager to snatch your valuables and leave you bloodied on the street. But a nighttime country stroll? It was an entirely different experience. The air was cool but fresh, the cicada’s song replaced the roar of automobiles, and the _stars…_ You could barely see the stars at night in the heart of London, but out here… it was like a whole other world. Looking up as he walked at Crowley’s side, Miles felt as if he could see every star in the entire galaxy and it was _beautiful._

Yet, what Miles found himself enjoying the very most was the sheer _seclusion_ of it all. He and Crowley would never have been able to walk as they were down a city street, no matter how late at night they made their outing; in the city, there was always the potential threat of _someone_ seeing you – of someone catching sight of joined hands or a whispered nothing and reporting it to the police… or worse. Here, though? On the private road leading to the vineyard, where it was just the two of them and the occasional hoot of an owl? They could just… _be themselves_. There was nobody around to stop them or harass them or hurt them. There was nothing to fear at all.

_Yes, Miles Maitland could very easily adjust to life in the country, so long as Crowley was with him._

His head resting against Crowley’s shoulder while they walked, still staring up at the stars, Miles exhaled a content little sigh and whispered, “You know, I’ve never been stargazing before.”

Looking down when Miles spoke, given he had seemed content with the peace and quiet for so long, Crowley arched an eyebrow with a small smile, asking, “No?”

“Never,” Miles confirmed, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I took courses on the stars and the planets back at Oxford – astronomy, you know – but it never occurred to me what it might be like to actually _see_ it all. To just look up at the sky and think about how _big_ the universe really is and how tiny we are in comparison…”

_In fairness, he’d had other things on his mind back at Oxford – like how many bottles of French champagne he could drink on his own in five minutes. It had felt like extremely important research at the time._

His smile softening, Crowley slowed their stride to a stop and mused, “There’s nothing stopping you from seeing it all now,” before pulling Miles off of the beaten path and over to a comfortable patch of grass. On any other occasion, Miles Maitland would have positively _balked_ at the idea of lying out on the grass and ruining his good clothes, but with Crowley? The redhead was already sprawled out, his long legs crossed and his fingers folded like a pillow behind his head, and it – _he_ – just looked so very _inviting_.

It had only been two months since Crowley flashed Miles a smile and told him to “live a little” at his birthday party, and already he found he was living more and more each day. Really, _properly_ living. Parties and galas and yacht jaunts were all well and good, but Miles was quickly learning, just from being around Crowley, that there was far more to life. He’d thought that he was happy before, with the glitz and the glamour and everything that accompanied his accustomed way of life – and, while he _did_ enjoy all the trappings of wealth, he was quickly discovering that incredibly _simple_ things made him feel much happier. Late night piano duets at the Ritz made him happy; hiding away from an entire party of people just to be with one very special person made him happy; early morning kisses made him _very_ happy, and none of it cost a dime. Money, it would seem, could buy a great many things, but happiness wasn’t one of them –

\- nor was love. Love was priceless.

Settling down in the grass at Crowley’s side, Miles shuffled closer until he was able to grasp Crowley’s hand in his again while he stared up at the sky. It was truly breathtaking, even more so now that the storm clouds had entirely dissipated, leaving the sky a clear, inky black, free to glitter down at them from above.

“You said you took astronomy classes at Oxford?” Crowley asked, brushing his thumb against Miles’ knuckles.

“Oh, yes,” Miles confirmed, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “It was mandatory that we focus some of our attention on the sciences - and stars seemed far more romantic than equations,” he joked, turning his head to toss Crowley a smile. Smirking in return, Crowley hummed thoughtfully before turning his gaze back up to the sky.

“What do you know about constellations?” he asked, prompting Miles to return his gaze to the stars as well.

“As much as any amateur astronomer should, I suppose,” he mused, his gaze flitting around for a moment before he raised a hand, directing Crowley’s eyes with his fingertip. “That bright cluster of stars there? That’s the Big Dipper – but did you know that the Big Dipper isn’t _actually_ a constellation?”

Furrowing his brow, Crowley huffed out, “You’re pulling my leg.”

“I would never!” Miles gasped as he dropped his hand, nudging Crowley’s side with his elbow before raising their joined hands to point instead, tracing the outline of what he described to make it easier to see. “The Big Dipper is part of a larger constellation – Ursa Major. They call it the Great Bear,” he explained, smirking as he added, “The Big Dipper is just a _very_ big bear’s tail.”

Squinting up at the sky, Crowley snorted out a quiet laugh when he realized Miles _wasn’t_ pulling his leg, after all.

“I’ll be damned,” he mused, glancing over at Miles as he asked, “Why bother calling it the Big Dipper at all, then? They should just call it the Big Bear’s Tail.”

“People simply enjoy their Milky Way imagery too much,” Miles hummed, shrugging. “The Big Dipper in the Milky Way; you can’t exactly drink milk from a bear’s tail, now can you?”

“Suppose not,” Crowley conceded, toying with Miles’ fingers between his as he asked, “What others do you know?”

“Well, there are the zodiacs,” Miles continued, lifting his free hand again to point a few out. “If you look to the lower left of the Big Bear’s Tail, there’s Pisces-”

“The Big Fish Tail,” Crowley joked, smirking when Miles giggled.

“I suppose. I’m a Pisces, you know.”

“I know,” Crowley confirmed, thoroughly surprising Miles.

“You know astrology?”

“Of course I do,” Crowley stated as he continued to toy with Miles’ fingers, turning his head to meet his gaze. “The sciences never interested me much, but _pseudoscience?_ Now  _that_ is fascinating. Not to mention… well, you know… Some of the girls on the street used to do tarot card readings and the like to make a few pounds here and there when their flowers weren’t selling well. This one girl, Nancy, took a shining to me and gave me a reading for free, once.” Smirking, Crowley mused, “I’m a Scorpio. According to dear Nancy, my life is to be filled with dreadful turmoil, but I’ll eventually come to rest in the land of the sun.”

“What did she mean by that?” Miles asked, arching an eyebrow, and Crowley shrugged.

“I haven’t the foggiest. I thought she meant Heaven at the time, but that’s looking less and less likely as the years go by.”

Sighing, Miles rolled onto his side to toy with Crowley’s tie, musing, “We’re all going to Hell, my darling; we might as well enjoy the ride.”

Smirking, Crowley shook his head and pressed a kiss to Miles' hair, breezily adding, “I dunno... Whatever she did mean, ‘the land of the sun’ doesn’t sound so bad. I could use a tan.”

“Oh, you and me both,” Miles agreed, nuzzling his nose against Crowley’s neck as he tugged his tie loose from his vest, curling it around his fingers. “I _do_ so long to go somewhere warm; Venice, perhaps. I haven’t been to Venice in an _age_.”

“Venice,” Crowley mused thoughtfully, feeling his pulse jump as Miles nuzzled his throat and toyed with his tie, but he did his best to maintain an aloof exterior. “Good wine, if I recall correctly.”

“Better beaches.”

“Exquisite pasta.”

“Shall we go?”

Smirking, Crowley peeked at Miles, nudging his nose with his own as he released Miles’ hand in favour of wrapping an arm around his torso to hold him closer.

“If we went, I’m afraid we’d be in danger of never coming back.”

“Oh?” Miles asked, grinning with impish curiosity as he tangled his legs with Crowley’s, lifting a hand to play with his red hair. “Why, pray tell, may we never come back?”

“ _Because…_ ” Crowley sighed, dragging the word out as he rolled Miles beneath him in the grass, brushing the tip of his nose against Miles’ nose before allowing his lips to hover just an inch above his, “If I had you all to myself in Venice, I can see no probable reason why I would ever feel inclined to return you.”

His breath catching in his throat at the way Crowley’s voice seemed to take on a rumbling quality, low and ever-so-tantalizing, Miles fluttered his eyes shut in anticipation of the kiss that was bound to follow.

“My darling, you _are_ devilish…” he breathed, arching his body up to meet Crowley’s as he finished, “And, I daresay, if you were to kidnap me and drag me to Italy, I would gladly be your prisoner there forever and ever.”

“My pretty captive…” Crowley hummed, brushing his lips just once against Miles’ before dragging them over to his ear, nipping at his earlobe and eliciting a gasp before he murmured, “ _Am_ I devilish?”

“Oh, _completely_ ,” Miles whispered, the words rather resembling a groan, and Crowley smirked as he pressed a kiss to a sensitive spot beneath Miles’ ear.

“But you like it, don’t you?”

“Terribly much,” Miles all but whimpered as Crowley blew against his ear, the gesture sending a delicious shiver down his spine. _Oh, how cruel… How wonderfully, beautifully cruel…_

“Perhaps not my captive, then,” Crowley practically purred, trailing one hand down Miles’ thigh while his other tangled their fingers together again, pinning one hand to the ground near his head. “If I’m devilish, that would make you my _Persephone…_ A light in the gloom, my precious springtime bloom… Just begging to be… _plucked_.”

The sound that Miles made, if it was meant to be words, was intelligible; his body was pressed desperately up against Crowley’s, dying to be touched, and the single word that he managed to gasp out, half on a whimper and half on a moan, was “ _Crowley_ -!”

And then the teasing, torturous, Heavenly and Hellish weight of Crowley’s body was gone, leaving Miles to heave in a breath as his eyes flew open. Where-?

“Come along; it’s late.”

Blinking several times, trying to collect himself, Miles gaped up at Crowley, who was now standing above him, holding out a hand to help him up as if he hadn’t nearly reduced Miles’ entire body to jelly with a single, innuendo-laced word.

“Darling, _really_ -!” Miles complained, his face hot and his hands trembling, and Crowley just smirked and gave the fingers of his extended hand a pointed wiggle.

“Yes, _really_ ,” Crowley confirmed, tapping his foot against the grass expectantly. “I fully intend to pluck you from the grass so I can gently deposit you in my bed, where you belong.”

Miles was incredibly grateful that he was already lying on the grass because he was certain that he would have just swooned had he not been. His heart racing, he wet his lips before lifting a hand to place it in Crowley’s, allowing himself to be pulled up to his feet – and, if their pace was a tad more hurried than it had been initially, neither of them commented upon it.

* * *

By the time they reached Gordon Park, the clock in the entry hall read half past midnight and, remarkably, the house was quiet. Miles, rather smugly, came to the conclusion that a party simply wasn’t a party without him present – and Crowley, who was rather fixated on other things, didn’t put much thought into where the rest of his guests were or what they had gotten up to that day. They could tell him all about it tomorrow. For tonight, the only guest he planned to concern himself with was _Miles_.

He made that abundantly clear once the door to his bedroom was shut and locked behind them by finally allowing himself to push Miles against the nearest wall, locking their lips together in a desperate, hungry, _plundering_ kiss. Nibbling at Miles’ lower lip, Crowley thrust his hips against his before delving his tongue into Miles’ mouth, earning a rather keen moan for his efforts. Miles had his hands at Crowley’s cheeks when the kiss began but they quickly ended up knotted in his red hair, keeping him close while their tongues tangled. Crowley’s hands were at Miles’ waist, fisted in his soft, knit-vest – and, when they finally needed to breathe, he made a point of pulling it up and over Miles’ head, carelessly tossing it aside.

“Really, darling, that ought to be folded up… it will _wrinkle_ …” Miles tried to insist, but all thoughts of the state of his attire went out the window when Crowley pressed his lips to a positively _divine_ spot near his pulse point, sucking teasingly.

“I’ll buy you another,” Crowley murmured as he nibbled and sucked his way along Miles’ jawline, earning a string of whimpers and high, keening moans.

“It was… _custom made_ …” Miles babbled, his hands sliding down to rest at the nape of Crowley’s neck while his eyes briefly rolled back in his head before his lids fluttered shut. Crowley was presently kissing down his neck and loosening his bowie at the same time, carelessly tossing that aside, as well.

“Then I’ll _make_ you another,” Crowley countered, sliding his hands down Miles’ torso before bunching his hands into his shirt, giving it a tug to get it free from where he’d tucked it into his trousers that morning. Breathless, deliriously so, and imagining Crowley trying to knit him a baby blue vest, Miles couldn’t help but giggle.

“Darling, you really are too much…” he cooed, sliding his own hands around to hook a finger beneath Crowley’s necktie, slowly beginning to loosen it before giving a slight tug and pulling Crowley back up, pressing another kiss to his lips. This one was deep, passionate – _purposeful._

Scratching his well-manicured nails against Crowley’s scalp, Miles smirked when the gesture _finally_ got _Crowley_ to groan, making a point of toying with and tugging at his hair while he got his necktie off and started working on unbuttoning his vest – which was _really_ easier said than done while one’s lips are preoccupied. Of course, Crowley seemed to have no issue with the buttons of Miles’ shirt, nor the buckle of his belt, nor the button of his trousers; he was so skilled, in fact, that Miles didn’t even fully process all Crowley had done until, suddenly, those elegant fingers were slipping into his pants and _touching_ him, and the stars he saw as a result had nothing to do with constellations.

Gasping against Crowley’s lips, Miles felt his hips twitch of their own volition to be closer to Crowley’s touch, a much lower moan than all those previous vibrating into their kiss. It was clear that Crowley enjoyed having the upper hand and Miles was _more_ than happy to give it to him – especially if it meant feeling like _this_.

When their lips finally parted, with Crowley’s forehead resting against his, Miles breathlessly gasped out, “Darling, I – _ahhh_ …”

Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips when Crowley’s fingers wrapped around him and gave a slight squeeze; Miles whimpered with delight and knocked his head back against the wall.

“You’re going to be the death of me…” he whispered, breathing shakily, and Crowley smirked before brushing the most tender of kisses to his lips.

“Only a little death, darling… I swear…”

Exhaling a desperate little moan, Miles bit his lip when Crowley began trailing a path of warm kisses down his throat, squeezing his eyes shut with ecstasy as he started working his hand against him and _oh,_ this was _bliss_ , this was _Heaven…_

Each kiss Crowley pressed to his skin felt like a brand – hot, pointed, and _possessive_ , as if he were claiming Miles as his own, and Miles was utterly eager to be claimed. As the kisses began to slide lower, first over his collarbone and then lower still, his tongue swirling against each nipple, it was all Miles could do to whimper and whisper sweet nothings, incoherent and blissful murmurings of “ _Crowley… My dearest darling, my heart, my dearheart… oh, **Crowley** …_”

Of course, all language failed the second Crowley reached his intended destination and Miles felt as though his brain may actually short circuit. It was one thing to have Crowley’s lips on his skin and his fingers doing truly obscene things, but for his _lips_ to be enacting the obscene? The second that Crowley nudged his pants down and took him into his mouth, Miles had to clamp a hand over his own lips to stifle a moan loud enough to not only wake their friends but to wake _the dead_.

It wasn’t as if this were his first time; he’d had lovers over the years, all of whom had been wonderful in their own ways, but _Crowley?_ Crowley was _exquisite_. Crowley was divine. Crowley was something else entirely. That’s when it hit him, of course – because these kinds of realizations always tend to come at the most inopportune moments.

Miles Maitland had loved every man he ever shared a bed with. He referred to them internally as “lovers” for a reason.

But Miles Maitland was _in love_ with Anthony J. Crowley.

That was why everything felt more intense; why every kiss seemed to tingle more, why every touch made him burn, why what Crowley was currently doing to him _right now_ made Miles feel nothing short of euphoric. It was why, when he choked out “ _don’t stop, please, **oh** , don’t ever **stop,**_ ” he had meant more than just the motion of Crowley’s lips and tongue and fingers; more deeply, he had been speaking to his own feelings, pleading with the universe to always allow him to feel this way – pleading with whatever higher power resided up above, for there was no way that loving someone this intensely could truly be a sin.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, precisely - when he had shifted from loving Crowley like he loved all the others to being _in_ love with him. Perhaps it had been that night at the opera when he saw him cry – when he saw just how _deeply_ Crowley felt things – or maybe it was earlier than that; maybe he fell in love with him that night in Granny Runcible’s library, when Crowley told him to “live a little” and made his heart beat faster with a single smile. Then there was the very real possibility that he had been in love with Crowley since that first night at the Ritz, laughing over bottles of wine and singing spirited duets together like they had been doing so forever. Maybe he’d _always_ been in love with Crowley, like soulmates, bound together for centuries through shared past lives.

_Maybe he was just being terribly romantic and thinking all too much._

_(But maybe not.)_

Brushing his fingers, shaking though they were, through Crowley’s hair, Miles shuddered and choked on a moan as he struggled to keep his hips tame, but it was getting increasingly difficult. He just _felt_ so very _much_ , in every possible sense of the phrase.

“Crowley… Crowley, _darling_ … Oh, my darling, my _darling, I’m_ … I can’t, I _can’t, I’m_ -!”

Screwing his eyes tightly shut, the sound that escaped Miles was nearly a sob when he came apart; the bliss of it all was entirely overwhelming. He’d never felt so _good_ in all his life and the list of drugs that he had tried was nearly as long as his arm; none of them, _nothing_ , had ever made him feel like this. He could very easily never touch a single thing ever again if he could only have Crowley, just like this, for the rest of his life. His fingers knotted in soft red hair, utterly _surrounded_ by him; even the bedroom smelled like his cologne. If anything, that only made him come apart even harder.

When he felt like his knees were about to buckle under the effort of standing, Crowley was there; he was holding Miles up, arms wound around his torso, while he licked his lips and flashed that _smirk_. Nuzzling their noses together, Crowley playfully declared, “I’ve wanted to do that since you nearly ran me down at the Ritz.”

A blush blooming on Miles’ cheeks, he shakily asked, “…truly…?”

“Yes,” Crowley confirmed, pressing a surprisingly chaste kiss to Miles’ lips given his current state of undress; he presently had his trousers and his pants around his ankles, and his shirt was open and hanging akimbo from his shoulders. Miles Maitland looked positively ravished and Crowley wasn’t even finished with him yet. Kissing his nose, he smiled softly before scooping Miles up with a surprising amount of ease, carrying him over to deposit him – as promised – on the room’s exquisitely comfortable bed. Miles felt as if he could sink into the heavy red comforter beneath him, and he was all too happy to shut his eyes while Crowley divested him of his shoes and socks and properly tugged off his trousers and pants. A moment or two later, while his eyes were still shut, he felt the mattress sink slightly as Crowley crawled up to rest at his side.

“You make an incredibly pretty picture, you know,” he mused, trailing a gentle finger up and down Miles chest, from clavicle to navel. “The only thing that would make it prettier would be if you were wearing my shirt instead of your own.”

“You _are_ a terribly naughty cad…” Miles giggled blissfully, fluttering his eyes open.

“There it is again,” Crowley sighed, moving his hand from Miles’ chest to instead cup his cheek, musing with a playful sort of wistfulness, “That angelic glow.”

Miles laughed properly and shook his head. “I _hardly_ think my post-orgasmic glow qualifies as angelic, darling, but you are sweet…”

“Sweet on you,” Crowley replied with his usual cheesy sort of charm, smirking fondly before pressing several kisses to Miles’ face, not unlike he had to wake him up that morning. It was a feeling Miles could easily get used to. Shifting, he lifted a hand to slip it into Crowley’s hair, drawing his lips down for a proper kiss – slow, tender, and filled with the feeling he was not yet brave enough to express aloud. There was a chance that uttering the word “love” could send Crowley running and that was the very _last_ thing that Miles wanted to do.

So he settled for kisses, gently caressing Crowley’s cheeks, and doing everything physically in his power to make him _feel_ loved. For now, it was enough - at least, it was enough _emotionally_ speaking. He was still burning to his very core for Crowley – he wanted him, d _esperately_ , in every way that a person can want another. He longed for him: mind, body, and soul.

Their kisses were a clear indication that the feeling was mutual; what had started out soft and entirely innocent was building in heat and tension, with Crowley shifting to cover Miles’ body with his own, fingers sliding into dark, messy curls while they kissed again, and again, and _again…_

“I’m yours, you know…” Miles whispered, heart pounding in his chest while Crowley hovered above him a few moments later, lips parted and breathless. He was beautiful – almost unearthly so.  Lifting a hand, his entire body still tingling in the afterglow of what Crowley had done to him, Miles traced Crowley’s sharp jawline with a fingertip, admiring him in the moonlight. Licking his lips, he whispered, “I’m yours to do with whatever you wish…”

Exhaling shakily, Crowley pressed his forehead to Miles’, his fingers gently carding through his hair. It was an incredibly tempting offer – but he didn’t dare push things _too_ far, want to though he may.

“I could name a list a mile long of the things I would like to do to you…” he breathed, earning a shiver from his companion, “but only if the desire to do so is entirely mutual.”

Nibbling his lip, Miles felt a shudder of desire run through his body despite how sated he already was. He knew that his refractory period was far from over; there was physically no way he would be capable of taking things further; but… he could allow himself to _be taken_. Briefly shutting his eyes, nearly in ecstasy just at the thought, he whispered, “Darling, would you like very much to have your way with me?”

Pausing, Crowley felt his mouth go dry and a great deal of the blood in his brain rush south. His voice taking on a rather husky quality, he asked, “Care to elaborate?”

“Would you like to _have_ me?” Miles clarified, his hazel eyes dark with desire, and he smirked ever so slightly when Crowley groaned. “To take me – to be inside of me?”

“You know that I would,” Crowley half-growled, half-moaned, nuzzling his face against the crook of Miles' neck. He wanted nothing more in the world, as his body was clearly demonstrating, but he wouldn’t – he _couldn’t;_ not unless -

“My, what a coincidence,” Miles cooed, turning his head enough to brush his lips against Crowley’s ear before stating, “For I would very much enjoy being taken by you... Having you _claim me_ as yours...”

Crowley went absolutely still atop Miles for the briefest of moments, his face hidden from view, and then he became a complete flurry of action; his lips found Miles’ again while both of their hands fumbled with remaining layers of clothing, Crowley tugging Miles’ shirt properly from his arms while Miles eagerly divested Crowley of his silk vest and shirt. The trousers became a team effort, Crowley tugging his belt out of the way while Miles made quick work of the button, and then it was Crowley’s turn to exhale a gasp-like moan when Miles’ fingers slipped down to caress him where he was desperate to be touched.

With an impossibly naughty giggle, Miles whispered, “Oh, you _do_ want me, don’t you?”

Rocking his hips down against Miles’ hand, Crowley huffed out through clenched teeth, “ _Immensely_.”

Smirking, clearly chuffed by the sheer amount of desire he was able to inspire, Miles began to stroke Crowley, watching with fascination the way that his touch made him move. Crowley was flexible; that much was clear from the way his back bent to thrust his hips closer to Miles’ touch. Had anyone ever wanted him this much? He could hardly _ask_ his past lovers to make an apt comparison, but he highly doubted it. And, _oh_ , the way those pretty lips parted to let a strangled moan escape; Miles couldn’t resist leaning up and kissing him again.

Everything after that kiss happened quite quickly. The rest of Crowley’s clothes disappeared from between them, a feat accomplished by eager hands, and then Crowley was inside of Miles, their mutual gasps resounding and echoing in the dark bedroom. Hands were clasped together and clutching at pillows and bed sheets while they moved; then Crowley released one of Miles’ hands in favour of tangling it in his curls, his lips trailing kisses down Miles’ neck and over his shoulder blades. Everything felt _impossibly_ good.

" _Stay with me_ ," Miles gasped. Crowley caught his lips in a brief, breathless kiss before murmuring between thrusts, " _Forever_..."

When they came, they came together, twin moans muffled against pillows and skin. Miles had never felt so utterly spent by the time they were through – and Crowley had never felt so _much_ , period. Neither were blushing virgins, but there was something about being with each other that just felt… _different._ It felt like something  _more._

Collapsing against Miles’ back when the more intense of the aftershocks of his orgasm had run their course, Crowley pressed a kiss just below his lover’s ear. Miles, breathless and exhausted, giggled before mumbling, “I don’t think I can move.”

“No need,” Crowley whispered, kissing the same spot again as his hand gently trailed over Miles' ribs, his other fingers combing slowly through the damp curls they had been tangled in. “I want you to stay right where you are.”

“The servants will talk…” Miles sighed, but he didn’t even attempt moving despite his concern. Crowley graced him with another kiss, this one to his cheek.

“The servants won’t come in unless I bid them to do so.”

“How can you be sure…?” Miles asked quietly, already feeling his eyelids beginning to droop.

“Because I pay them well and treat them with basic human decency,” Crowley quipped, smirking as he drew the duvet over their warm bodies, pressing a gentle trail of kisses down the back of Miles’ neck, earning himself a sleepy shiver. “They know I like to sleep for days on end – sometimes with guests. They don’t care.”

Miles simply hummed in response, too tired to object. It was really quite endearing. Shifting their position beneath the blankets so that he could spoon Miles to his chest rather than lounge atop him, Crowley nuzzled his nose against the sleepy gentleman’s neck.

“You know…” Crowley whispered close to Miles’ ear, tenderly stroking his curls with one hand while the other arm securely held him near, “Mad as it must sound after only a few months, I think I may be falling rather in love with you.”

Cradled in his tender embrace, Miles was already fast asleep.


	5. Fools Rush In (and I've Been a Fool Before)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Chatterbox strikes again!

It was nearing one o’clock in the afternoon when Miles and Crowley deigned it worthwhile to grace their friends with their presence – if only because, having not eaten since they had dinner in town the evening prior, they were both feeling rather peckish.

“Oh, dear,” Miles said abruptly to himself, stopping dead in his tracks and prompting Crowley, who had been just about to enter the sitting room, to do the same. Smirking curiously, the redhead turned to face him.

“What are you ‘oh, dear’ing about, dare I ask?” he quipped with a smirk, hands tucked into the pockets of his grey trousers. Miles sighed and glanced toward the staircase.

“I’ve forgotten something,” he explained and Crowley arched an eyebrow.

“What have you forgotten?”

“This,” Miles stated plainly, causing confusion to flicker briefly across Crowley’s face before Miles’ fingers were suddenly knotted around his necktie, drawing their lips together in a tender kiss. Crowley smirked when Miles drew back and nudged their noses against each other.

“Well, we can’t go forgetting _that_ , now can we?” he asked, his forehead resting against Miles’, and Miles offered up a cheeky grin in response, his eyes dancing with mirth.

“We certainly can’t.”

“I’m glad you remembered.”

“As am I,” Miles mused, stealing one more peck from Crowley’s lips before releasing his tie and breezing, happily, into the sitting room.

Their friends were all gathered there for afternoon tea; Agatha was sitting at the piano, Adam was perched in an armchair with one of the library’s many books, and Nina was sitting in the window seat while she nibbled on a scone. Being the only one who was relatively undistracted, she noticed Miles and Crowley’s entrance first.

“There you two are! We were beginning to wonder if you were both going to sleep the whole day away,” she joked with a grin, and Miles considered, for the briefest of moments, greeting her with the same apathy that he had yesterday – but then Crowley’s advice rang around in his head. Perhaps he ought to forgive her; chances were that she really _didn’t_ recall what she had done wrong, and that _was_ a far stretch from Simon Balcairn’s transgressions. Thus, he allowed his smile to stay in place as he breezed over, kissing her on both cheeks and stealing one of the scones from her plate. He was, after all, famished.

“We had rather a late night,” Miles mused, smirking to himself, and Crowley nodded in agreement as he took a seat on the crushed velvet settee, draping an arm over the back of it.

“The car ran out of gas about three miles down the road; we had no choice but to walk the rest of the way,” he supplied, glancing up when a knock sounded against the doorframe of the sitting room’s open French doors. Maggie, the housemaid, was standing there.

“Master Crowley, sir? Mrs. Hawthorne was wondering if she ought to put on another pot of tea.”

“Yes, please,” he agreed, catching her before she could walk back to the kitchens, “and Maggie? Could you ask Carleton to meet me in the entrance hall in roughly an hour? We had a bit of car trouble last night and had to leave it a few miles back on the road; it needs petrol.”

“Of course, sir,” Maggie agreed with a curtsy and a smile before taking her leave.

“Oh, that sounds positively _dreadful_ ,” Agatha stated, having turned around on the piano bench to face them all. “Walking in the dark all that way – there could have been bandits or any manner of wild beasts. Were you terribly frightened?”

“You make it sound so _dramatic_ , Aggie, dear,” Miles tutted, grinning and shaking his head as he walked over to join Crowley on the settee, breaking off a piece of his stolen scone once he was seated. “You would think we were in the middle of Sherwood Forest rather than a quaint village in South Downs.”

“We don’t have many bandits around here, and the wild beasts tend to keep to the forest, save for the occasional rabbit or two,” Crowley supplied with an amused smirk, leaving his arm over the back of the settee even after Miles sat down – and if Miles happened to sit rather close to his side, well, that was no one’s business but their own.

“Besides,” Miles mused, his smirk even broader than Crowley’s own, “what could I possibly have to be frightened of? I had my very own Robin of Loxley to keep me safe and sound.”

Agatha’s lips quirked upward with amusement.

“I suppose you did,” she agreed, sipping her tea.

Shifting on the settee as he popped a bite of his scone into his mouth, subtly leaning against Crowley’s side, Miles mused, “It was quite lovely, actually. All that you could see for _miles and miles_ were _stars._ It’s nothing at all like walking through London; it felt like something out of a fairy tale.”

“It proved to be quite a fascinating evening for us both,” Crowley agreed, managing to sound perfectly nonchalant despite the double entendres that was clear to Miles’ ears. “I had no idea that Miles was such a gifted astronomer.”

Over in his armchair, Adam chuckled quietly from behind his book, earning a huff from Miles.

“If something is amusing, dear boy, _do_ share it with the crowd,” Miles instructed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in Adam’s direction, and Adam smirked when he looked up.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he mused, setting his book down in his lap. “I just recall that the only reason you took that astronomy course to begin with-”

“-was to broaden my horizons.”

“-was because the professor had a very nice _bottom,_ ” Adam finished, still smirking as he picked his book back up. “What was his name again-?”

“Professor Logan,” Miles answered, perhaps a bit too quickly, prompting himself to blush. When Adam simply chuckled again, Miles huffed and said, “Yes, _alright._ Perhaps my… _reason_ for taking that class was a tad… _salacious,_ but that doesn’t mean I didn’t _learn_ things. I paid a great deal of attention-”

“-to his buttocks-”

“- _to his lectures._ Really, Adam, as if _you_ can talk. You spent half of your literature classes writing sonnets and mooning over Nina.”

Now it was Adam’s turn to blush, and he promptly turned his attention – rather intensely – back to his book. Nina, however, wasn’t deaf, and she looked up with a curious little grin from where she had been looking out the window at some birds fluttering about in the garden.

“You wrote sonnets about me, Adam, dear?”

“I…” Adam fumbled, blushing even more, and Miles smirked wickedly.

“Oh, he wrote them _constantly,_ Nina, darling. Did he never read any to you?”

“Never,” Nina stated, almost pouting. “Why didn’t you, Adam, dear? You know how I adore poetry, especially when it’s tortured and full of sadness.”

Adam fumbled further, still blushing, and Miles countered, “Oh, no; I believe they were _love_ sonnets, weren’t they, Adam? Proper Italian ballads. Petrarch would have been so _proud_.”

“ _Love_ poetry? Oh,” Nina deadpanned, looking back out the window. “It gives me a pain. I never read such things.”

Poor Adam looked like his head might pop from how red he was turning, so Crowley decided to take pity on him. Rising to his feet when Maggie brought in a fresh pot of tea, he asked as he walked over to pour himself a cup, “Tell me, Adam; have you heard much about that big auto race that’s being held in Chichester?”

“The Goodwood race?” Adam asked, grateful for the distraction, as he willed the blood to drain from his cheeks and resume pumping throughout the rest of his body. “Er – yes, of course. I believe the Duke of Richmond is playing host this year.”

“Charles? Oh, I _do_ like him; he’s got the funniest little mustache,” Agatha mused, grinning, and Adam nodded.

“Yes, Charles; I’ve heard that Hilda’s not very keen on the prospect – she hates gambling, you know – but he’s going ahead with it anyway. It’s meant to be quite the competition this year. Why’d you mention it?” Adam asked Crowley as he ventured back over to the settee, two cups of tea in his hand; he passed one to Miles before sitting down again.

“I’m thinking about entering,” he stated plainly, effectively making Miles choke on the tea that he’d just taken a sip of.

“You’re _what?_ ” he asked, his eyes wide, and Crowley smirked at his stunned expression.

“I’m thinking of entering,” he repeated, sipping his own tea as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on them all. “I need something to put on the mantle above my fireplace back in London; I thought a trophy would do nicely.”

“When did you decide this?” Miles spluttered, still gaping, and Crowley shrugged before gesturing to the newspaper that someone had abandoned on the coffee table earlier that morning. The front page headline read, “ _Duke to host auto race in Chichester_ ”.

“Just now,” he stated, smirking and lifting a hand to brush a few curls back from Miles’ forehead. “Why – you don’t think I could win?”

“Oh, I never said _that,_ ” Miles disagreed, blushing slightly as he settled back into the velvet of the settee. “It’s just… a bit of a shock. You’ve never mentioned racing before.”

By the piano, Agatha’s lips were pursed; she looked rather troubled while she watched the micro-expressions flit across Miles’ face.

“Never considered it before,” Crowley stated, clearly noticing that something was off, as well.

Adam, however, was oblivious, and he carried on as if everything were perfectly fine.

“I know the Duke; he and my father served together during the war. I could make a few calls and see about having you added to the roster if you’re quite serious?”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” Crowley agreed, sipping his own tea, and the blush began to fade from Miles’ cheeks. Instead, he was growing rather pale.

“Right, then; I’ll see to it now. You’ve got a telephone, haven’t you-?”

“I’ll show you,” Miles offered, setting his cup and saucer down on the coffee table and getting to his feet before anyone else could offer to do so. Crowley furrowed his brow as he watched Miles rise.

“Don’t be silly,” he countered, already reaching for the bell that rested in the centre of the table. “I can ring for Maggie-”

“No, no; don’t trouble the poor girl for something so trivial. I saw the telephone when we first arrived; I don’t mind showing him where. Adam?”

Blinking, glancing between Miles and Crowley, Adam shrugged and sat his book aside, rising to his feet and following Miles from the sitting room. Crowley watched them go, clearly perplexed. Over in the window seat, Nina sighed and turned her head to look at Agatha, asking, “It’s Tiger again, isn’t it?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Agatha greed, thin-lipped, and Crowley frowned as he turned to look at the two of them instead of at the door.

“What?” he asked, frowning with confusion, and Agatha frowned, too, before she offered up an explanation.

“Tiger Leboucher. He’s a driver that Miles… used to know.”

“Quite intimately, if I recall correctly,” Nina added and Agatha’s frown deepened.

“Yes, Nina, _quite intimately_ ,” she confirmed, sighing before getting to the heart of things. “The fact of the matter is that he and Miles were _involved,_ a few years ago, and it ended rather badly. Tiger was never willing to be as… _openly affectionate_ as Miles, so he broke things off - and he was terribly nasty about it. He called Miles a number of dreadful things and told him that he was utterly unlovable – and that he was ‘too much to handle.’ It broke his heart. The painful truth is that Miles was far more serious about him than he was about Miles.”

“He’s married, now, you know,” Nina cut in, shifting to get more comfortable in the window seat, “to Elizabeth Francis.”

“ _Elizabeth Francis?_ ” Agatha asked, turning to look at Nina. “You _must_ be joking.”

“Oh, no, darling; I’m perfectly serious. Their wedding announcement was in all of the papers last June. You didn’t see it?” Grinning conspiratorially, Nina added, “She’s quite rich, too; _buckets_ of money. Her father owns a textile factory over in Glasgow; apparently, it’s an old family business and she has quite the fortune waiting for her when he dies.” Pausing thoughtfully, Nina’s grin slipped before she mused, “I may be wrong, but I do believe they started courting… well… it couldn’t have been a month after he broke things off with Miles.”

“The cad,” Agatha spat, scowling. “Of course it was money. It was _always_ about money with him.”

“Isn’t that the way with everyone?” Nina asked innocently but she received no answer, for Adam chose that moment to stroll back into the sitting room with Miles at his heels.

“It’s all sorted; you’ll be at the back of the starting lineup, though, I’m afraid. Last minute entry and all that,” Adam stated, but he received no reply from Crowley. The redheaded gentleman was staring off into space, a thoughtful frown tugging at his lips, clearly still running through everything that Agatha and Nina had just disclosed. It was only when Adam said his name that he looked up.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, that’s fine; no trouble at all. Miles?”

Miles, who had been plucking listlessly at the petals of a daisy in one of the room’s many floral arrangements, looked up when Crowley said his name. He was rather startled to find Crowley on his feet, walking with purpose in his direction - and, when Crowley reached him, his hands found Miles’ cheeks and he bent to press a kiss to his lips.

A kiss – a _proper_ kiss, in front of everybody – and without even the slightest ounce of shame behind it. Miles’ eyelids fluttered shut after he recovered from his initial shock and he melted into the tender gesture, his hands coming to rest at Crowley’s elbows. When they parted, Miles blinked with surprise, a small smile playing at his lips as the colour returned to his cheeks.

“Whatever was that for?” he asked, slowly beginning to blush, and Crowley grinned as he brushed his thumbs against Miles’ warming cheeks.

“You just looked like you could use a dose of affection,” he supplied, smirking when he managed to reduce Miles’ to a blushing, babbling mess, not unlike he had that first night at the Ritz.

“ _Oh._ Well, that’s… that’s… _oh_ ,” he breathed, a flustered little giggle escaping from his throat of its own volition before he ducked his head, tucking it against Crowley’s shoulder. Adam, Agatha, and Nina all knew the truth about his sexuality but, even still, no one that he’d been with had ever been brave enough to _kiss him_ in their company. Even holding hands often bordered on ‘too much’ in the company of others – but, evidently, not with Crowley. When he felt the redhead press a kiss to his own dark curls, Miles smiled and wound his arms around Crowley’s middle, hugging him tightly.

Had he ever felt _this_ happy before? He was quite sure that he never had.

* * *

A great deal happened between their April romp in South Downs and the Goodwood race, which fell at the tail-end of August. There were several parties, several _more_ trips to South Downs, and – most importantly – Crowley made good on his promise of a trip to Italy.

It had seemed safe enough to go; after all, the race provided him with a concrete reason to bother bringing Miles back home to England rather than stealing him away forever (which he was genuinely tempted to do). However, for the purpose of keeping up appearances (and as collateral), he invited Agatha to tag along, too. She’d seemed the safest of the three to bring, for Nina was a bit of a loose canon and Adam… well, Adam was _dull,_ bless him. He was fine in a group, but on his own? Nina would be far better off with his company back in London than they would have been on a whirlwind Italian tour.

The three of them spent all of June and half of July flitting between all of the major Italian cities, which gave them plenty of time to drink wine, get stuffed on pasta, and to bask in the sun. It was _much_ warmer than it had been back in England – that much was certain.

The final night of their time in Italy was to be spent in Verona; they were going to catch the morning train to Paris and spend a few days in France before heading back to London – no matter how much they yearned to stay away.

No one _knew them_ in Italy, and it was a luxury that Miles was enjoying immensely. No one wrote silly columns there about how many glasses of wine he’d drank the night before or who he was seen with. He could just be a _person._ In a way, it was like the entire country was a largescale version of South Downs. It was _peaceful_.

Such was what Miles was reflecting upon as he stood out on the balcony of his suite; Crowley had arranged for the three of them to rent a villa for their stay in the city. It was a beautiful old building made of white and red limestone, comfortably furnished and with wide, open and airy rooms. Furthermore, it had a gorgeous view of the Adige river, which was where his gaze was currently transfixed as the sun sank over the horizon. Italy was like a little chunk of Heaven; Crowley wouldn’t have needed to tempt him to stay forever. He would have done so gladly.

It was then that a voice from down below drew his attention away from the cityscape.

“Hark! What light through yonder window breaks? Is that an angel I see, perched so fair on the balcony?”

His hazel eyes widening, Miles felt his cheeks turn pink as he looked down to find Crowley standing in the garden below, smirking. Several of the buttons of his shirt were undone and he looked positively like a _rake,_ straight out of the Renaissance – save for the dark sunglasses perched on his nose.

Already a tad flustered, Miles found his voice and stated, “I’m quite sure that’s not how the play goes.”

“It’s true, just the same,” Crowley mused, and that’s when Miles noticed he was toying with a single red rose. He’d gone down to the garden after they returned from dinner in the city while Miles had retired upstairs; flowers could only amuse him for so long whereas they could capture Crowley’s attention for hours. Miles got his fill of them on their first day in Verona.

“You _are_ a silly cad,” Miles teased with a fond smirk, leaning against the iron railing of the balcony to peer down at him, his gaze fixed on the rose. “Is that for me?”

“What, this?” Crowley asked, giving the stem a twirl and sniffing the petals, his smirk never wavering. “I suppose that depends. Will you allow a lonely Romeo to come up and join you for the night?”

Blushing properly, Miles shook his head with amusement, leaning his cheek against his palm as he stared down at Crowley.

“Do you even need to ask?” he questioned in a dreamy tone, his gaze following his lover’s movements, assuming he was heading inside – but Miles inhaled a sharp breath when, beside the balcony, the latticework that was fixed against the wall, coiling with ivy, gave a tremor.

“Crowley?” he asked, moving to look down at the side of the balcony rather than the forefront, and he made a startled noise when he saw him _climbing the wall_ with the rose’s stem between his teeth _._ The wood of the lattice had to be at least a century old, if not more – which meant it was very likely _flimsy_. Crowley was skinny, yes, but he wasn’t _that_ light.

“ _Anthony!_ ” he cried out in horror. “Get _down_ from there, you mad thing! You’re going to fall to your death! I mean it – get _down!_ ”

But Crowley just kept climbing, mumbling something around the rose that sounded like “ _relax,_ ” as Miles anxiously clung to the railing. The lattice was creaking and groaning and shaking with every step that he took upward and, while Miles looked absolutely terrified, Crowley didn’t seem phased in the slightest. When he reached a point high enough to transfer over to the balcony, he moved to do so – and one of the wooden slats splintered and broke off beneath the polished gold of his snakeskin boot.

Miles immediately squeezed his eyes tightly shut and clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a scream as he waited for the inevitable thud of a body hitting the ground and bones breaking, but it never came. Slowly, he peeked one eye open only to allow the other to follow when he realized that Crowley was standing, with his feet between the bars of the balcony, on the opposite side while he held onto the railing. He was _smirking,_ too, which only served to elevate Miles’ frustration.

“You are-” he began to speak as Crowley gracefully leapt over to the other side of the balcony, landing with ease on the wrought-iron grating and pulling the rose from between his teeth, “-a _bloody idiot!_ You could have fallen and cracked your head open and-”

“I don’t remember Juliet being so fussy,” Crowley mused, winding an arm around Miles’ torso while his other hand still held the rose. Utterly annoyed, Miles made a noise of irritation and grabbed onto Crowley’s shirt, pulling him in for a searing kiss.

When they parted, he continued to cling and snapped, “Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again.”

Smirking, Crowley nudged his nose against Miles’ nose, perfectly content to be bossed around and worried over.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he promised while Miles continued to bristle.

“You know,” he muttered, frowning pointedly at Crowley, “sometimes, I really do _despise_ you.”

“You don’t,” Crowley disagreed with a smug grin and a cheerful lilt to his voice, causing Miles to sigh and lose the tension in his shoulders.

“I don’t,” he agreed, leaning his forehead against Crowley’s briefly before looking down at the rose in his hand. Following Miles’ gaze, Crowley’s grin softened.

“I thought you might like it, what with it being our last night in Verona. Y’know, _Romeo and Juliet_ and the whole romance of it all; a rose seemed appropriate.”

Cracking a small smile, Miles took the flower and gave it an appreciative little sniff, meeting Crowley’s gaze from beneath his mascara-clad eyelashes.

“I shall treasure it always,” he promised, leaning up to press a kiss to Crowley’s warm cheek. His skin was wonderfully sun-kissed and the constant exposure had even brightened his hair a bit, giving it a slight ginger tinge. Miles was struck, not for the first time, by just how beautiful Crowley really was – and by how much he loved him. It would have been the perfect moment to say it, at sunset in a city that was the epitome of romance (albeit _tragic_ romance), but he just… _couldn’t._ He couldn’t be the one to say it first out of fear that Crowley wouldn’t say it back – and that he might abandon him like so many others had. So he told himself, for the umpteenth time, that he _showed_ how he felt well enough; surely Crowley knew.

Letting his lips linger at Crowley’s cheek, Miles smiled softly against his skin before he turned and pushed the gauzy white curtains aside to step into the bedroom, searching for a place to safely put his rose. He finally settled on placing it in a vase on the dressing table, alongside the other flowers in the floral arrangement; he would snip it and press it in one of his books before they left in the morning. For now, he wanted to be able to admire it.

Coming up behind him, Crowley pressed a kiss to the back of Miles neck as his arms snaked around his torso. As Miles shivered, Crowley asked, “Do you know what I shall treasure always?”

Leaning back into Crowley’s arms, Miles smiled softly and asked, “What, dearheart?”

Ghosting his lips near Miles’ ear, Crowley tenderly whispered, “ _You_ ,” before dropping a soft kiss to his jawline. Miles felt his heart skip a beat at such a heartfelt declaration; it was more than anyone had ever implied. Every other lover that he’d ever been with had made it painstakingly obvious, either with their actions or their words, that whatever existed between them was only temporary; it could never be permanent, no matter how badly Miles wanted it to be. They would go off and marry nice girls and have children and lead respectable lives, and he would be alone.

Well, perhaps he would have Agatha, but that wasn’t quite the same. She was his dearest friend, and she always would be, but this was… _different._ This was an ache, deep in his chest – a longing for something more – a longing for a _life_ with someone.

That was what Crowley’s words suggested, for ‘always’ and ‘forever’ were very much one and the same by definition. No one had ever promised to treasure him always, nor to be with him forever, and it was all so wonderfully overwhelming. Tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, Miles whirled in Crowley’s embrace and tossed his arms around his neck, meeting his lips with a rather desperate kiss – one that sent Crowley stumbling backward a few steps with surprise until his back came in contact with one of the bedposts.

Not about to protest, given he’d hoped they would end up in this position eventually, Crowley eagerly kissed Miles in return, one hand snaking up to his hair while the other gripped at the back of his shirt – but then he realized, upon tasting salty tears on his lips, that Miles was _crying_. Abruptly breaking their heated kiss, Crowley shook his head when Miles whined and tried to chase his lips. Ghosting his hand down from Miles’ hair to instead cup his cheek, Crowley frowned as he brushed away one of the offending tears with his thumb.

“You’re crying,” he observed, loosening his grip on Miles’ shirt to instead wind a comforting arm around him and hold him close. “Why are you crying?”

“ _Oh_ …” Miles sniffled with frustration, lifting the heels of his hands to wipe at his own tears as he shook his head and looked down. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Can we please just-?”

“No, Miles,” Crowley interjected, “we cannot _just_. You’re _crying._ You need to talk to me.”

“Crowley, _please_ …” Miles attempted, pressing another kiss to his lips and, upon garnering no response, he made a distressed little noise and hiccupped as his tears continued to fall, landing against Crowley’s fingers as his hand remained cupping Miles’ cheek.

Lifting his other hand to pull off his sunglasses, Crowley tossed them carelessly onto the bed before wrapping his arm around Miles again, ensuring eye-contact as he spoke with a gentle tone, “I want you to listen to me, alright? _Nothing_ that you can say will upset me. What _is_ upsetting me is that something is making you cry and I don’t know _what_. I need you to talk to me; talk to me so I can help.”

Brushing away more of his tears, Crowley looked earnestly at Miles and earned himself another sniffle. Finally, blinking back more tears, Miles whispered, “It’s just… No one’s ever used the word ‘always’ with me before. I’ve only ever been… a _temporary fix_. A good-time-boy, not a long-time-lover. I know it sounds silly, but-”

“It’s not silly,” Crowley assured him, offering Miles a soft smile as he dried the rest of his tears using his sleeve. His smile quirking upward into a smirk, he playfully added, “and anyone who saw you as a ‘temporary fix’ clearly never understood how _addictive_ you are.”

Blushing in the dim, fading pink glow of the sunset outside, Miles laughed faintly and asked, “You think that I’m addictive?”

“Think? _Think,_ you ask? Oh, _Miles,_ ” Crowley sighed, lifting a hand to flick the canopy around the bed aside. Smirking outright now, he used the arm around Miles’ waist to drag him down onto the bed with him, sending them tumbling into the sheets and pillows as Miles exhaled a surprised sound of delight.

“Miles, Miles, _Miles…_ ” Crowley tutted, rolling Miles beneath him on the mattress, with its fluffy white duvet, and pinning him there with his hips. Tangling their fingers together, Crowley slid Miles’ hands up and pinned them above his head, watching his pupils dilate with desire as he all but purred, “I _know_ that I’m addicted to you. I’ll never be able to get enough…”

Shivering, Miles licked his lips and asked, “Never?”

Bending to brush his lips against Miles’ in the most chaste of kisses that simultaneously promised more was to come, Crowley whispered, “ _Never._ I’m going to crave you until I draw my dying breath…”

Exhaling a trembling breath of his own, Miles whispered, “Those are dangerous words to utter in Verona, my darling. Things didn’t end very well for dear Romeo and Juliet…”

Smirking, Crowley nudged Miles’ nose and hummed before he mused, “That’s because Shakespeare was writing a tragedy. I intend for our story to be an epic romance with no foreseeable ending. Our lives shall be nothing but unending bliss…”

Smirking in return, Miles lowered his lashes as he mused in return, “I _do_ enjoy bliss…”

Rocking his hips against Miles’ in response and eliciting a delicious little moan, Crowley squeezed Miles’ hands and whispered, “Then no more tears, darling – for your unending bliss starts tonight.”

His breath hitching, Miles eagerly met Crowley’s lips in another kiss, perfectly happy to lose himself in the fantasy Crowley had painted – and to believe that it could truly be their reality.

* * *

When August 16th finally arrived, Miles found that he was actually approaching the day with a bit of excitement rather than absolute dread. Would he see Tiger in Chichester? It was probable – highly likely, even – but it wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was _Crowley_ – and seeing Crowley _win._

Of course, very few of the spectators were anticipating such an outcome and even fewer were _betting_ on it; everyone knew _the name_ ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ but nobody knew whether or not he could _drive_. Miles knew, though; Miles, and Agatha, and Adam, and Nina (although Nina had still bet, in secret, on Tiger).

It was midafternoon when they arrived at Goodwood House and made their way down to the track, and Miles was practically vibrating with excitement; Agatha had to lace her arm through his to keep him grounded as they wove their way through the thick crowd of eager spectators. Adjusting his sunglasses as he walked alongside them, arm linked with Nina’s, Adam glanced around and mused, “I _do_ hope he knows what he’s gotten himself into. Every man here has at least two years of experience competing – and driving a proper racecar is a bit different from driving a Bentley…”

Tutting, Miles shook his head, tossing Adam a grin as the sun bore down on them all. They hadn’t made the same mistake that they had on their first day in South Downs back in April; today, they had all dressed for the heat. Adam and Miles had both foregone jackets, opting for simple white shirts with rolled-up sleeves and silk vests – Adam’s a light grey and Miles’ an intricate, embroidered gold. Flashy – just how Crowley liked him to dress – and his sunglasses matched. Agatha had opted for a similar outfit, having knicked one of Miles' blush-coloured vests earlier that morning, while Nina had chosen a yellow floral summer dress made of an airy material that fluttered in the breeze, along with white gloves and a hat to keep the sun off of her head. That didn’t, of course, stop her from carrying a lace parasol, too – one which Miles quickly stole from her with an exclamation of, “You hardly need a hat _and_ a parasol, Nina, darling; give it here. I can’t go fainting from heat exhaustion on _today_ of all days.”

Nina had begrudgingly relinquished it to him and Miles now had it perched over his shoulder and was twirling it idly as they made their way toward the ‘pit’, where all of the crews were busy tending to the drivers’ cars.

“Trust me, Adam; he knows what he’s doing,” Miles insisted, breezing with Agatha straight past a man with a clipboard and a mustache who looked _very_ ‘official’. He hurried to catch up with them and blocked their group from going any further.

“Crew and family only past this point,” he stated, frowning and firmly standing his ground; Miles wagered, from his stance and the fact that he was clearly overcompensating for something, that he was a footman whom the Duke had put in charge of securing the area – i.e. a bloke with virtually no power in a big household and with a desperate need to prove himself and assert himself over others.

“We’re family,” Miles stated with a falsely sweet smile, giving his parasol another twirl. “A driver is expecting us.”

The footman-turned-security-guard gave them all apprehensive once-overs before asking, “Which driver?”

Smirking as he continued to twirl his parasol, Miles pushed his gold sunglasses up on his nose as he declared, with pointed and perfect enunciation, “Anthony J. Crowley.”

Having been staring at his clipboard while he waited for an answer, the mustachioed official glanced up when he heard the name – and, while Miles wasn’t a fan of people whispering about Crowley behind his back, he _did_ rather like the way that his name turned heads. He could only _imagine_ the looks he would garner if they were able to be married. ‘Miles Malpractice’ becoming Miles _Crowley?_ The papers wouldn’t know what to do with themselves.

After a long pause, the man asked, “Your relation to Mr. Crowley?”

Giving his parasol another twirl, Miles breezed past the man again with Agatha in tow, smirking as he declared with the utmost casualness, “He’s my husband.”

Adam visibly cringed while Nina’s eyes widened, and they hurried to follow after Miles and Agatha as the man exclaimed, “He’s your _what?_ ”

Pinching Miles’ arm for his brazenness, Agatha turned her head and called back, “My friend is a bit confused, sir; the heat’s gotten to him, I’m afraid. He meant to say that Mr. Crowley is _my_ husband.”

“Oh, dear…” Miles sighed theatrically, putting a hand to his forehead as they walked. “Silly me, with my boiled brains. I assure you, sir, Mr. Crowley is, in fact, _my_ husband.”

“ _My_ husband,” Agatha corrected again, shaking her head, and the man scowled, taking another glance at Miles’ vibrant attire and his stolen parasol before he spoke again.

“God sees everything and judges all,” was what he spat, with clear disgust, before stalking back up the hill to resume his post. Miles wrinkled his nose as he watched him hurry away.

“What a wretched little man,” he stated, huffing and shaking his head as he added, “and with absolutely _no_ sense of humour.”

“Miles, _really,_ ” Nina cut in when she and Adam finally caught up to Miles and Agatha. Taking Miles’ free arm while her other remained linked with Adam’s, she declared, “You need to be more _sensible._ You’re going to get yourself into trouble if you aren’t careful.”

“I daresay she’s right, you know,” Adam agreed, a look of concern written all over his face, and Miles rolled his eyes as they made their way past pit crews working on cars and large tents reserved for family members of the drivers.

“I daresay that _you_ are both spoilsports,” he stated, smiling broadly when they reached the final crew section of the lineup, where a team of hired mechanics were diligently tuning up the sleek, black racing car that Crowley had purchased for the event back in May. Crowley was with them, clad in a black racing jacket and blue jeans with his red hair slicked back and a larger pair of sunglasses perched upon his nose than he usually wore; they verged on goggles, which made sense given what he was about to do. They were certainly more _stylish_ than standard racing goggles, and Miles decided quite promptly that Crowley’s rough-and-tumble racing aesthetic was one that he fancied _very_ much.

“Crowley, dear!” he called over the revving of engines and the general noise associated with a day at the races. When Crowley looked over and flashed them all a bright smile, Miles playfully declared, “You’ll be happy to know I escorted Mrs. Crowley here, safe and sound. The fellow at the gate gave us some trouble but we got it all sorted.”

“Mrs. Crowley?” Crowley asked, shooting Agatha an amused glance, and Agatha sighed and let go of Miles’ arm in favour of walking over and giving Crowley an affectionate peck on the cheek.

“Yes, dear. I’m afraid poor Miles has had a bit too much sun and gotten himself into a terrible daze; he told the fellow at the gate that _he was your husband._ I had to set the record straight.”

“My _husband?_ ” Crowley asked, smirking as he and Agatha both strolled over to stand with Miles, Adam, and Nina. “Now isn’t _that_ quite the notion?”

“Oh, you know,” Miles sighed dreamily, giving his parasol another twirl as he returned Crowley’s smirk. “Miles Crowley _does_ rather have a ring to it, don’t you think?”

Crowley just grinned.

“How’re things coming along with the car, then?” Adam asked, hoping to divert the topic of conversation into less dangerous waters, and Crowley looked up before turning his gaze back to the car in question. It was presently being shined to perfection by one of the younger members of the pit crew; the glossy black paint stood out against the older, more dinged-up cars that were set to compete today. It practically screamed ‘look at me, I’m the rookie.’

“Oh, splendid,” Crowley confirmed, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans as he turned his gaze back to Adam. “She handles like a dream. I took her out for a spin around the track this morning; I don’t think we’ll run into any problems.”

“Well, you know,” Adam interjected, trying to sound as casual as he could muster, “the real race is quite different from a practice run. You never know what… problems… you might run into.”

Smirking curiously, Crowley asked, “You think this is my first rodeo, don’t you?”

Adam didn’t have a chance to question Crowley on that vague statement, though, for another voice cut through the crowd at that moment – a voice that was most unwelcome to all of them.

“Miles Maitland? I _thought_ that was you. I never fancied I’d see you around a track ever again.”

Pursing his lips, Miles turned to face the direction that the voice had come from. Approaching their section of the pit was Tiger Leboucher, his brown hair tousled and his grin far too at ease, considering who he was speaking to. Curling his fingers tighter around his parasol, so tight that he could have snapped the bamboo, Miles responded merely by saying, “Hello, Tiger.”

“Oh, come on, now; is that any way to treat an old friend?” Tiger asked when he finally reached them and the set of Miles’ jaw grew firmer. That was how he was going to play it, then; even now, _years_ later, he was still trying to sell the “we were just friends” angle to people – as if anybody still cared. Even now, he was ashamed of their relationship – but not, evidently, of the way that he broke it off. If he felt even a shred of shame, he wouldn’t have the gall to speak to Miles.

“An old friend, you say?” Agatha asked, lingering close to Miles’ side. “Here I thought you were just a money-grubbing cad. My mistake.”

Managing to keep his smile in place, Tiger mused, “Agatha – always a pleasure seeing you.”

“The feeling could not possibly be less mutual.”

Flitting his gaze back to Miles, opting to ignore Agatha’s hostility, Tiger asked, “You still haven’t answered my question; what are you doing here?”

Though his forced smile, the accusatory tone still rang true. Upon realizing that Tiger honestly thought that he was there to see _him,_ Miles finally managed a reaction other than apathy; he _laughed._

“Oh, you thought I was here to see _you?_ How charming,” he cooed, smiling in the truly condescending way that his mother taught him long ago. “No, no, Tiger, dear; none of us are here for _you._ Truth be told, I didn’t even know you were competing here today.” _A lie, but he didn’t know that._ “We’re here for _Crowley._ ”

Upon hearing the name, Tiger’s gaze swept from Miles to the redheaded gentleman standing at his side, and he blinked several times. Miles just smirked.

“You’re Crowley?” Tiger asked, clearing his throat before asking, “Anthony J. Crowley?”

“In the flesh,” Crowley confirmed, his eyes narrowed behind the thick, dark lenses of his sunglasses. “And you, I presume, are Tiger Leboucher.”

“You’ve heard of me, then?” Tiger asked, trying to behave casually, but he was squirming slightly; even when someone is wearing sunglasses, one can feel when they are being scrutinized.

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of you,” Crowley stated. His tone was not complimentary. “I look forward to beating you this afternoon.”

Tiger gave a startled little laugh, glancing from Adam, to Nina, to Agatha, to Miles, and finally back to Crowley, certain that they were having a go at him. When it became clear that they weren’t, he arched an eyebrow and asked, “You think you can beat me? The last time I checked the roster, _I’m_ the champion and _you_ … well, there certainly aren’t many bets being placed on your name, now, are there?”

“The last time _I_ checked, money isn’t an accurate measure of merit,” Crowley cut in, his voice never wavering, remaining utterly cool throughout the entire exchange. It was clear that his words had a deeper meaning than surface gambling; he was calling Tiger out for his behaviour in the past. Glancing between Miles and Crowley, Tiger’s cheeks reddened as their potential relationship status dawned on him.

“Are you quite alright, Tiger, dear?” Miles asked with false sweetness, tilting his head, and Tiger pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose.

“Fine, fine, I’m absolutely fine,” he blustered, but his previous demeanour was clearly shaken. He’d thought that he held the upper-hand; he’d thought that, at the end of the day, he ended up married and wealthy and that Miles would still be pining for him after all these years. Now that such didn’t appear to be the case, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. So, with nothing better to say, he narrowed his eyes in Crowley’s direction and stated, “You won’t beat me. You’ll be lucky if you can even manage to stay on the track. Better men than you have gone up in flames.”

Turning on his heel, Tiger made his way back toward his own pit crew near the front of the lineup; a blonde woman exited his station’s tent, a glass of champagne in her hand, and kissed his cheek. There was no warmth in the gesture, though; her body-language was as cold and closed-off as his, likely as the result of years’ worth of rejection.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Adam stated after a beat, turning to look at Crowley. “Men have been forced off of the track before; the explosions in the past have been terrible. It’s an awful way to go out. No one would blame you if you wanted to back down, Crowley, really-”

Crowley just scoffed and rolled his eyes, pointing down at Tiger and asking, “You think _that little man_ scares me? _Please_.”

Adam still looked troubled and appeared to be about to argue further but a voice broke through the noise of the track over the PA system, informing the drivers to be at the ready.

“That’s my cue,” Crowley declared, smirking and radiating sheer confidence. Adam simply sighed and shook his head as they all followed Crowley over to the car, now fully prepped and ready to go.

“Best of luck, darling,” Agatha bade him, giving his cheek another theatrical little kiss as she smiled, and Adam nodded his agreement. Nina, on the other hand, opted to say, “Remember not to go _too_ fast, though; Tiger’s right. These things can be quite dangerous.”

She was speaking less out of concern for Crowley and more out of concern for the bet that she had placed upon Tiger winning.

Miles, handing Nina back her parasol, made a point of adjusting Crowley’s jacket and smoothing it at the shoulders, smirking ever so slightly as he countered Nina’s suggestion by saying, “Pay her no mind. You get out there and you _beat him._ Get that trophy for your mantle; we’ll drink the finest vintage that we can find out of it to celebrate.” His expression softening, Miles added, “But _do_ be careful, darling; I want you to finish out in one piece. You’re far more valuable than a silly trophy.”

Smirking, Crowley slid his sunglasses down his nose and tossed Miles a wink, musing, “I’m going to hold you to that promise of a vintage,” before he hopped into his car and got settled, igniting the engine with a rumble loud enough to turn heads. The other drivers snorted and shook their heads, positive that Crowley was nothing to worry about; with an engine like that, he’d stall out in the takeoff and be finished before he even began.

_Or so they thought._

For, you see, an easy way to make a quick dollar over in America was competitive racing – and Crowley, bored out of his mind while he waited days on end between shipment schedules, got quite good at driving over the years. He supposed that’s what happens when you’ve been doing it – and winning – since you were a teenager. Smirking to himself, he repositioned his sunglasses firmly on his nose and held his position, hand poised at-the-ready on his gearshift – and, when the gunshot signalled the beginning of the race, he took off with _modest_ speed, at first – because the key to victory was letting all of the anarchy play out and then bypassing it rather than getting caught in the thick of things.

His lack of speed was deceptive; immediately, the other drivers stopped seeing him as a potential threat, which was exactly what Crowley wanted. Back in the pit, Adam sheltered his eyes from the sun with his hand, squinting as the cars got further away from them.

“He’s not going very fast, is he?” he asked, prompting Nina to smile.

“At least _someone_ is capable of listening to reason,” she mused, tossing a sideways glance at Miles, but Miles just smirked.

He smirked because he _knew._

He’d spent the better part of May in South Downs with Crowley, watching him practice each day for hours on end. That’s how he _knew_ how good he was, and that he was _far_ better than Tiger had ever been. Tiger may have been fast, but Crowley was _clever_ – and brains would beat brawn any day. They’d laid awake at night, cuddled close together, and Crowley had told him all about his racing days back in America and the key to _winning_. Thus, Miles wasn’t really _worried_ about Crowley, like he would undoubtedly have been if he _had_ been a rookie; Crowley knew exactly what he was doing.

In the course of the first four laps, there were three crashes; none fatal, but they caused rather a fuss out on the track. Several drivers had no choice but to reduce their speed to avoid collisions with the spinning cars as they crashed, and others drove intentionally off of the track to avoid them. Not Crowley, though; Crowley, who had been far enough behind to avoid the accidents, shifted gears and began picking up speed on the fifth lap.

He didn’t pass everyone right out of the gate; that would have been too obvious. He took it slow, passing one car per lap, every turn carefully calculated; it was on the thirteenth lap out of sixteen that Crowley began to bridge the gap between himself and Tiger.

He smirked. _Now the fun could begin._

His goal was ultimately to make Tiger look as foolish as possible. It was what he deserved, for how he’d treated Miles – and, frankly, how he’d spoken to Crowley himself hadn’t helped matters. If he’d been determined to beat him before, he was _damned_ determined to do so now.

He didn’t, however, let Tiger realize that. Instead, he lulled him into a false sense of security for laps fourteen and fifteen; he let him think that he had the faster car and that his lead was impossible to overtake. It wasn’t until Tiger made a point of smugly flipping him off that Crowley decided he’d had enough with the games.

Tugging on the gearshift, Crowley opened the engine up completely before _punching_ the gas. His car started rapidly gaining speed, the wind whipping his hair about regardless of how much product he’d used, and mere seconds later he was blowing past Tiger and leaving him in the dust – quite literally. Tiger was so startled by the speed with which Crowley passed him and the dirt from the track that his car kicked up in the process that he ended up spinning out, whereupon his car slid into the grass alongside the track and stalled out. Cars were consecutively whipping past as he tried to get the car started again, but it was useless. Finally, he resorted to getting out and angrily kicking the tires, yanking off his protective goggles and tossing them to the ground where he stomped them to bits.

Back in the pit, Agatha smirked.

“Losing is a good look on him, isn’t it?” she asked and Miles grinned in return, relishing in this sweet little revenge.

“I do believe he’s never looked better,” he mused, tossing Agatha a wink before they turned their attention back to Crowley, avidly cheering him on as he entered the final lap well ahead of everyone else. Adam looked shell-shocked; Nina looked distraught.

“Did you have any idea he could drive like that?” Adam asked, glancing over at Miles, and Miles just tossed him a grin that clearly said he knew _everything_ that there was to know about Anthony J. Crowley, London’s favourite mystery man.

When Crowley blew past the finish line less than a minute later, nearly everyone in attendance was stunned stupid, but Miles and Agatha – and, as he recovered from his initial shock, even Adam – were euphoric.

All of London’s upper-class individuals in attendance would look at this as the ultimate underdog story and start talking even _more_ about Crowley, for a _champion racecar driver_ was the very _last_ thing that any of them had expected him to be. Journalists and photographers were eagerly surging forward to take photographs and snatch quotes for their articles, all hoping to be the first to break the silence about the infamous Anthony J. Crowley. No one had ever been able to get a scoop about him before, so this was _huge._

Little did Crowley know, his Goodwood victory wouldn’t be the only story about him turning heads before the week was out…

* * *

Up at Goodwood House, there was an exquisite party thrown to commemorate the day – for, while she didn’t approve of gambling and fast driving, Hilda – the Duchess – _did_ love to throw a good party. There was a late dinner followed by drinks in the garden and the ballroom, and everyone was eager to have their chance to chat with Crowley – the speed demon who had, quite literally, come out of nowhere.

“Why on _Earth_ have you not raced before, my boy?” the Duke was asking as they all lingered about in the ballroom; they were nursing cocktails and champagne, Crowley still holding onto his trophy while Miles stayed close to his side. Agatha was at Miles’ elbow while Adam stood beside the Duke; Nina, while she was there too, was too busy sulking over her lost bet to do much talking.

“I can’t say the urge really struck me until very recently,” Crowley mused, sipping his cocktail; it was deep red and smelled of cherries. “I’ve got a track up at my vineyard in South Downs that I’d only ever used for the horses; then, of course, I saw your race in the newspaper and _everything_ changed.”

Initially, Crowley had only wanted to race for the adrenaline rush that it provided; when he learned about _Tiger,_ though, his reasoning shifted slightly.

“Well, you certainly gave us a good show today,” the Duke mused, smirking, and Crowley lifted his glass in acknowledgement before downing what was left of it, handing his glass off to a passing server before he responded.

“Maybe I’ll give you another show in the future,” he mused, smirking at his trophy and at the fact that, want it though he may, Tiger Leboucher would _not_ be having it; he wouldn’t be having the trophy, nor would he be having _Miles._ My, how that loss must have felt; to realize that another man was both a better lover to his former paramour _and_ to realize that the selfsame man was also a better driver? His ego had to be terribly bruised, and the thought only made Crowley smirk even more as he added, “I _do_ enjoy winning.”

The Duke laughed and clapped Crowley on the shoulder before excusing himself to chat with the other drivers. Once he was gone, Miles turned to look at Crowley and smirked, too.

“You do enjoy winning?” he quoted coyly and Crowley shrugged, grabbing a passing glass of champagne and taking a sip. He was beginning to feel pleasantly buzzed.

“I enjoy giving smug bastards what they have coming to them,” Crowley stated, clinking his glass playfully against Miles’ glass as he mused, “I do believe that and ‘winning’ are quite the same thing.”

Miles smirked affectionately and lifted a hand to tame some of Crowley’s flyaway hair; it had been an impossible mess since he stepped out of his car, but Miles found it was rather an endearing look. He just looked so utterly carefree and _happy._ Miles was feeling much the same way until, for the second time that day, his happy bubble was burst by the introduction of an _extremely_ unpleasant voice.

“Hello, gang; fancy seeing you all here.”

His eyes instantly narrowed and he made a point not of turning around, for his back was currently to the speaker, and Crowley looked perplexed by Miles’ reaction – until Adam spoke up.

“Simon! I didn’t know you were coming today,” he greeted their old friend and fellow Oxford alumnus, all smiles, and Nina was quick to give Simon a kiss on each cheek while Agatha settled for a smile (although it was rather forced. Miles wasn’t the only one who had a reputation thanks to Simon’s gossip columns, after all; hers just tended to involve more fictional orgies).

“I’m afraid I’m here for business instead of pleasure; Lord Monomark asked me to cover the race. I imagine he’ll be wanting to bump the story to the front page, though, after how the day played out; London’s favourite mystery man pulling through for a surprise and _shocking_ victory deserves a bit more space than a few lines in the back of the popular culture section.”

Grinning, Simon turned his attention from Adam to Crowley, pocketing his notepad and pencil before extending a hand in greeting, musing cheerfully, “And if it isn’t the man of the hour himself! Mr. Crowley, it truly is a pleasure to meet you in person; you’re such an enigma that I often wondered if you were real or if someone simply made you up to keep conversation interesting at parties.”

Not wishing to be rude, but also not wanting to be _too_ inviting, Crowley gestured to indicate that both of his hands were full (with his trophy and champagne). Simon chuckled and withdrew his hand before Crowley mused, “You’re Simon Balcairn, I presume – or should I call you Mr. Chatterbox?”

Simon’s cheeks flushed slightly at the mention of his pseudonym, despite the fact that practically everyone in London already knew that he was the traitorous sneak who wrote about them all in that wretched column. Clearing his throat, Simon whispered, “I would, ehm… prefer it if you didn’t say that name quite so loudly - if you don’t mind? You see, there are a few people who are cross about what I’ve written, and-”

Miles scoffed pointedly and deigned that as his cue to speak up. He’d kept his mouth shut for as long as he could, for Adam’s sake, but Simon attempting to play _the victim?_ That was simply too much to take.

“What’s the matter, _Simon?_ ” he asked as he finally turned around, clutching his champagne glass tighter than necessary. “Has your silly little gossip column given you a reputation? I can’t imagine that _anyone_ would know how _that_ feels.”

Simon blushed a deeper shade of crimson when Miles spoke up, glancing toward Adam as if hoping to be saved; Adam, not wishing to quarrel with Miles, said nothing for the moment. Finally, a rather flustered Simon asked, “You’re still angry with me, then, about that business with you and your photographer friend? Miles, that was _ages_ ago; I’m sure hardly anyone remembers what I wrote.”

“Oh, you’re _sure,_ are you?” Miles snapped, outright scowling at this point. “Because I’m quite sure that they _do._ When your 'dear friend' publishes a story about you in one of the most read columns in the city, in which he suggests that you’ve been dabbling in what the police call _gross indecency,_ it tends to _stick_ in the public imagination.”

“There was never any _proof,_ Miles; it was just a silly story! It was _harmless_ \- and I’d had a slow week. I needed something big for the Sunday paper or Monomark was going to _fire_ me. You would have done the same thing if you had been in my shoes.”

“I most certainly would not have!” Miles exclaimed, drawing a few glances in their direction.

“Darling,” Agatha cut in, resting a hand at Miles’ elbow and lowering her voice. “You may want to tone it down-”

“Tone it down?” Miles asked, turning to look at Agatha with wide eyes. “ _Tone it down?_ You heard what he said!”

“Yes, I know, but-”

“I’ll tell you something, _Mr. Chatterbox,_ ” Miles cut Agatha off as he turned to look at Simon again, his eyes glaring daggers straight through him. “Your ‘silly story’ was _far_ from harmless. Your ‘silly story’ disgraced a good man and ran him out of the city! You _ruined somebody’s life_ because you’d had _a slow week!_ You hung two people who trusted you out to dry to save your own neck, and that is something that I would _never_ do. You are nothing but a backstabbing, double-crossing, swindling, cold-hearted, foul-minded _fiend,_ and _I_ _despise you_.”

Simon looked rather agonized; clearly, he’d never before considered the true consequences that his fluff pieces had. People were angry with him, certainly, but actual _harm?_ That had never been his intention. He’d just… well, he’d been _desperate,_ and desperate people do stupid things. In fact, that’s quite a good explanation for why he said what he did next.

His face flushed, looking quite panicked as more and more people turned to look at their argument, Simon made one last-ditch effort to save face and declared haughtily for their audience, “Well, it’s hardly difficult to be _foul-minded_ when you give a person so much _filth_ to work with. I only ever printed what you disclosed to me – and I could have printed _far more_ than I did.”

His eyes widening with horror, betrayal, and absolute fury, Miles tossed the contents of his champagne glass into Simon’s face which, really, was the least that he could have done; he looked about ready to strangle him.

There was a great gasp throughout the ballroom at the display, with Nina gasping out “ _Miles!_ ” and Adam snapping, “Now, _really,_ ” while people tittered and whispered. Agatha, of course, didn’t look surprised; she’d tried to diffuse the situation, having sensed this outcome from a mile away. She, however, felt Miles’ reaction was entirely justified.

Wiping the champagne from his eyes and pushing his wet fringe back from his forehead, Simon forced a polite smile and muttered, “It's always a pleasure running into you, Miles. There truly is never a dull moment in your company. I ought to thank you, really; this will make a wonderful addition to this weekend’s column.”

Scowling, Miles snapped, “Oh, don’t you _dare._ ”

Plucking his notepad from his pocket, Simon orated as he began to scribble down notes in pencil, “ _Miles Malpractice strikes again! London’s most infamous dandy tosses champagne, utterly unprovoked, into Lord Balcairn’s face-_ ”

Making to snatch away the notepad, Miles cried, “I’ll do a great deal more than toss champagne into your face, you incorrigible _weasel!_ I’ll-!”

Passing off his champagne to Agatha, Crowley grabbed onto Miles’ arm before he could do something that he would end up regretting and muttered, “Don’t waste your breath. He’s not worth it.”

Bristling, Miles allowed Crowley to be his voice of reason, exhaling a frustrated breath through his nose before he straightened his vest and reached out to steal Crowley’s glass of champagne from Agatha. _Tonight was going to be a night better spent drunk, evidently_.

Glancing down at Crowley’s hand as it lingered at Miles’ elbow, Simon made a curious noise before turning on his heel and walking away, slipping out through the doors that led into the gardens. Once he was gone, Miles made a point of downing the entire glass of champagne in one go.

“I’m afraid you may have just made yourself Chatterbox’s next victim, my dear,” Agatha told Crowley as she sipped her own champagne and he shook his head with a roll of his eyes.

“Let him write whatever he wants; I couldn’t care less. It can’t possibly be any worse than the absurd rumours that have been swirling around my head for years,” he stated and Nina giggled.

“I once heard a rumour that you wear snakeskin boots because you deal in the importation of exotic pets for the richest of Britain’s lords and ladies,” she stated and Crowley snorted with a smirk.

“Not a bad business idea, but I can’t say it’s ever been one of my endeavours,” he mused, glancing over when he saw Miles hand off the two empty champagne glasses in his hands to a passing server and grab two more to replace them – which he promptly began to drink all on his own. Before he could tuck into the second glass (although Crowley had lost count of how many he’d had in total over the course of the evening), Crowley reached over and plucked it from Miles’ hand. He made a noise of protest in response.

“You owe me a glass; you stole mine from Agatha,” he stated, smirking as he took a sip. Miles just huffed, clearly still bristling from his encounter with Simon. Not about to let that ruin what had started out as a good night, he finished off the glass before giving Miles’ arm a squeeze, finally releasing it as he turned to look at Nina, handing her his trophy.

“Watch this for me, won’t you?” he asked, certain that a material girl such as herself wouldn’t mind, before he turned to Miles and mused, “As for _you - you_ need to burn off some steam. Walk with me.”

“Yes, alright, _fine_ ,” Miles huffed, allowing Crowley to nudge him in the direction of a set of doors which led into a corridor off of the ballroom. The noise faded exponentially as they walked down it and Miles set his jaw, glaring straight ahead.

“I hate him, you know. I really and truly _hate_ him.”

“I know,” Crowley confirmed, resting a hand on the small of Miles’ back as they walked.

“I really do.”

“I know,” he repeated, absently trying the knobs on each of the doors that they passed.

“I _truly_ do.”

“I _know_ ,” Crowley sighed, smirking when he finally located one that wasn’t locked, pushing it open and poking his head inside; it was a parlour, rarely used if the covers over the furniture were any indication, and the light from the sunset outside cast a warm glow through the windows. It was secluded (if a bit dusty) and _perfect._ Tugging Miles inside, Crowley shut the door again before pushing Miles up against it, ghosting his lips over Miles’ lips before he asked, “Now, are you going to spend my entire victory celebration complaining about Simon Balcairn or are you _finally_ going to kiss me?”

Miles squeaked with surprise when he was pushed up against the door, his eyes wide. It took his tipsy brain a moment to catch up with what was happening, but then he grabbed Crowley’s jacket in both hands and yanked him closer, pressing their mouths together in the sort of kiss that only anger can breed – anger, still fresh and bubbling below the surface, leaving one itching to take it out on something, even if that something did only manifest itself in the form of a rather rough kiss.

Of course, Crowley evidently hadn’t been expecting Miles to respond with _quite_ so much heat; he exhaled a startled moan as he took the brunt of it, his fingers sliding down from where they’d been resting upon the door to instead grip Miles’ forearms. When they parted for breath, he mumbled, “Has anyone ever told you that you are _exceptionally_ sexy when you’re angry?”

Biting at Crowley’s lip a tad harder than he normally would, Miles pushed Crowley’s jacket down from his shoulders until it fell in a heap on the floor, curling his fingers into the back of his white t-shirt afterward.

“I can’t say they have,” he stated, lightly scratching his well-manicured nails down Crowley’s back through his shirt. “If they did, I do believe I would have accused them of being rather masochistic.”

Shuddering beneath Miles’ touch, Crowley pinned him more securely to the door with his hips, smirking as he muttered, “And what if I _am_ a masochist?”

Miles simply arched an eyebrow in response, to which Crowley slid his hands down to toy with the buttons of Miles’ gold vest, popping the top one open as he breezily asked, “What if I told you that I quite like it when you’re rough and would _really_ like it if you kept on doing it?” Pressing in closer, he added, “What if I asked you to take out everything you’re feeling on me…?”

“Then I would _absolutely_ call you a masochist,” Miles mused, sliding his fingers back to curl them into Crowley’s messy hair before _pulling_ , pointedly, at the red tresses. Crowley _properly_ moaned when he did so, his eyes briefly fluttering shut, and Miles smirked curiously when, with their close proximity, he could feel the way that Crowley’s body reacted to the rough treatment. This wasn’t a kink that he had _expected_ , but it was certainly one that he could work with.

“Oh, yes, darling; you _are_ a little masochist, aren’t you?” he purred, scratching his nails against Crowley’s scalp before sliding both hands down to his chest to give him a push, backing him in the direction of the sheet-clad sofa. His hazel eyes had taken on a predatory quality and Crowley gave another shiver.

“Imagine the things that _vile_ man could write about _this_ ,” he stated as he shoved Crowley down so he was sitting atop the sheet covering the couch. Moving to straddle his hips, Miles took another fistful of Crowley’s hair and tugged his head back, watching as the action made him bite his lip to repress another moan. Ghosting his lips against Crowley’s, Miles muttered, “The bastard would certainly get quite the payday, wouldn’t he? I can see it now…”

Brushing his lips down to press them near Crowley’s ear, he whispered, “ _The infamous and oh-so-mysterious Mr. Anthony J. Crowley was caught in the throes of passion with the terribly naughty Miles Malpractice, and he kept crying out for more – more hair-pulling, more pushing, more… biting._ ”

“Biting-? _Gaaaaaaaahhhh_ -!” Crowley began to ask, the word trailing off into a shocked moan when Miles bit his shoulder – a spot easily hidden by his jacket – and began sucking a love mark onto his skin. Crowley felt his eyes roll back into his head as he desperately thrust his hips up against Miles', clutching fistfuls of the sheet covering the couch in his hands.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he half-whimpered, knocking his head against the back of the sofa, and Miles hummed against his skin, rolling his hips down against Crowley’s before he drew back to look at him, tutting and taking his chin in his hand to force him to make eye contact.

“You _do_ have a naughty mouth on you, don’t you?” he cooed, perfectly aware that Crowley had to be painfully hard at this point, and the jeans that he was wearing couldn’t be helping with matters. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Punish me,” Crowley gasped out, giving his hips another desperate rock, and Miles grinned, leaning in and pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“Oh, I could never do that,” he whispered, stroking his thumb over Crowley’s flushed cheek. “I love you far too much.”

Crowley’s breath hitched and Miles, for a moment, assumed it was related to his present state of arousal – and then he realized what he had just said and exhaled a quiet gasp of his own. He hadn’t meant to say it; he really, _really_ hadn’t! It just slipped out entirely of its own volition and now he couldn’t take it back, and Crowley was going to run away just like Tiger did, just like Charlie did – just like _everyone_ does, in the end. Panic seeping into his bones, he desperately tried to remedy the situation, exclaiming, “I mean-! That is, I meant to say that I, I, I love _this_ far too much – you know, being with you, and I- no! No, I don’t mean that I… I mean, I _do_ mean that, it’s just that I-”

Leaning forward, his hands coming up to Miles’ cheeks, Crowley effectively shut him up with a deep, lingering kiss. He stayed that way, snogging Miles into silence until he finally felt him relax. It was only then that he dared to pull away – when he was certain that Miles would be too breathless to interrupt him.

“I love you, too, you babbling little mix,” he stated, smirking and nudging Miles’ nose with his own. “Quite a lot.”

Blushing, his hazel eyes wide, Miles tried several times to speak before he finally whispered, “…you do?”

“ _Oh_ , yes,” Crowley confirmed, kissing Miles’ nose for good measure as he grinned.

“You… You _love_ me?” Miles asked, the disbelief clear in his tone, and Crowley’s expression softened as he stroked Miles’ cheeks with his thumbs.

“Miles Maitland,” he spoke intently, “ _I love you_.”

Shivering, still in shock, Miles whispered, “… _me?_ You love _me?_ ”

Shifting on the sofa, Crowley moved to wrap his arms around Miles’ waist, pulling him closer. Once again, he felt a pang of anger at how Miles had been treated in the past – at how Tiger had hurt him, at how Simon had betrayed him. He exuded so much confidence in public, but Crowley had grown to know him exceptionally well over the past months that they had spent together – well enough to know that, deep down, Miles was terribly insecure. That needed to be remedied. Cupping one of his cheeks, Crowley pressed his forehead to Miles’ forehead and met his gaze directly, insisting, “ _You._ I love _you._ You are quite possibly the most lovable person on the planet and I’ve quite fallen head-over-heels for you with no desire at all to get back up. I love you,” he murmured, beginning to punctuate each statement with a kiss to Miles’ face, “I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you_ …”

Beneath his kisses and his declarations, Miles started to melt; _his_ breath hitched this time as tears flooded his eyes and he shakily whispered, “Oh, _Crowley…_ ”

“I love you,” he said again, punctuating this one with a kiss to Miles’ lips and Miles instantly latched onto his t-shirt to hold him there as the tears trickled down his cheeks. He really wasn’t used to feeling loved – but it was a feeling that Crowley was determined to familiarize him with.

When they parted, Miles sniffled and whispered, “Take me home, won’t you…?”

Crowley didn’t even have to ask; he was quite certain that Miles meant his flat rather than Metroland Abbey. As they fussed with each other’s appearances, smoothing hair and refastening buttons in order to make each other politely presentable, a shadow passed by one of the windows. Snapping his gaze over in that direction, Miles squinted in the near darkness and asked, “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Crowley asked as he crossed over to fetch his jacket from the floor.

Taking a few steps closer to the window, Miles frowned and stated, “A shadow. I thought I saw a shadow.”

Smirking, Crowley shook his head and walked over, dropping a kiss to Miles’ neck before pulling him away from the window and toward the door.

“Do you think this place is haunted?” Crowley joked, pulling the door open and letting Miles walk out into the corridor first before he followed and shut the door behind them. “Are there ghosts at the window, scratching and begging to be let in?”

Shuddering, Miles playfully gave Crowley’s arm a swat, walking at his side back toward the ballroom. “Oh, _you._ I never said I saw a _ghost;_ it was a _shadow_.”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Crowley countered, still amused even as he shook his head. “Come on; let’s go and fetch my trophy and get out of here before the Duke tries to have me make a speech.”

Crowley was right, of course; there was no ghost in the parlour. There was, however, a certain gentleman lingering against the wall outside of the window, which was open just a crack to keep the room from going stale, and he was scribbling furiously on a notepad as the scent of champagne clung to his hair.

* * *

After dropping Adam, Nina, and Agatha off at the Rules for cocktails, Crowley headed straight for Mayfair with no further detours; upon arriving, he dismissed the flat’s servants for the night and they all vacated the penthouse without batting an eye. Miles had realized quickly that Crowley hadn’t been exaggerating in South Downs about his staff; because he paid them well and didn’t talk down to them, they respected him and didn’t really care what he did, be it stay in bed for days on end or have visitors late at night for more than just a nightcap.

Once the two of them were finally _properly_ alone, they spent the rest of the evening (and well into the night) not having sex, but _making love;_ every touch was tender and languid, every kiss was deep and profoundly heartfelt, and passionate declarations of _“I love you”_ were repeated over and over between gasps and breathless moans of pleasure. When they finally fell asleep - both feeling spent and utterly _loved_ \- tangled up in sheets of the finest white Egyptian cotton around three in the morning, they did so facing each other with their foreheads touching and their arms draped in a tight embrace.

Crowley, as was usually the case, woke up before Miles – for Miles was quite possibly the only person on the planet who could sleep even later than he could. It was one of the reasons that they worked so _well_ together; they were both shamelessly lazy and had no qualms against lounging in bed all day, stealing kisses until the sun set once again.

On this particular morning, though, he was craving coffee – and _breakfast._ Not the sort you could enjoy in bed, but a proper spread. So, he planted a tender kiss atop Miles’ head, nestling his nose momentarily in his lover’s messy curls with a smile, before he dragged himself from their comfortable nest to get dressed.

His cook, Ms. Crawford, had arrived a few hours earlier and already had coffee made when he came to the kitchen to place his breakfast order; he blessed her, told her she was an angel, and made his way to the dining room with a cup of coffee in hand.

It was while he was sipping it that he noticed, with narrowed eyes, that one of his many plants was wilting. They decorated the entire penthouse, his plants, and he refused to let any of the servants tend to them; that would be as bad as hiring a _gardener_ in South Downs. The truth was that no one knew how to handle plants quite like he did; one false move and they would wilt. Today’s culprit was a hanging peperomia that dangled from the ceiling.

Walking over, his eyes narrowing further with every step, he hissed, “I had an _exceptionally_ good night, and you thought you would ruin my morning with a _brown spot?_ What, are you wilting with _jealousy?_ That’s entirely unacceptable. You’d best get used to Miles being around, you pitiful thing, because he’s not going anywhere. And if you _don’t…_ ” Reaching out with his free hand, Crowley plucked the offending leaf from the plant and let it flutter to the floor, whispering menacingly, “You _will_ be going somewhere, and you won’t be coming back.”

“Are the plants being naughty again, sir?”

Crowley looked up when his butler, Mr. Patterson, walked in with all of the morning papers on a silver platter. Crowley liked Patterson; he had a sense of humour.

“Just this one,” he stated, tossing the peperomia one last dirty look before he walked over to the breakfast table, sipping his coffee as Patterson laid out the newspapers.

“I daresay it’s jealous, sir, that your attention has been elsewhere as of late.”

“My thoughts exactly, Patterson. Terribly needy things, peperomias; they’re positively exhausting.”

“It sounds rather like my wife, sir,” Patterson joked and Crowley scoffed good-naturedly, shaking his head as he took a seat at the table.

“Oh, hush now; that’s _nonsense._ Marjorie is far too good for you.”

Patterson chuckled, grinning as he tucked the silver tray beneath his arm.

“Quite right, sir; quite right,” he agreed, leaving the room in good spirits, and Crowley smirked and shook his head as he skimmed the headlines. Unsurprisingly, most of them were about the Goodwood race and his “shocking victory” – along with Tiger’s “shocking loss.” Those particular headlines, complete with snapshots of the git kicking his car, were particularly enjoyable; he was sure Miles would have great fun with them.

Surprisingly, the _Daily Herald_ didn’t have much to say about his big win; it chose to focus, like a few others, on Tiger’s loss – which Crowley did find a bit strange, given it _was_ Simon Balcairn who wrote the piece. He’d made such a big show of carrying on about how Crowley’s victory would be “front page news” and then hardly made any mention of him at all, save for crediting him as the eventual victor. The piece itself wasn’t so bad, really; he actually got a chuckle out of one of the quotes in which Tiger called him “a no-good, dirty-rotten cheat with hair as slick as his sneaky driving.” He didn’t take well to losing, that one.

Unfortunately, Crowley ended up choking on his coffee when, out of curiosity, he flipped to the popular culture section to see what Chatterbox had to say. He’d expected some foolish headline, as Simon had promised, about Miles tossing a drink in “Lord Balcairn’s” face, but what he was greeted with was worse.

Much, much worse.

**_Naughtiness infiltrates Goodwood House! Filth and Debauchery – right under the Duke’s nose!_ **

“Fuck _,_ ” Crowley cursed as he coughed, putting his coffee cup down as he covered his mouth – both to stifle the sound of his choking and to stifle his second exclamation of, “ _Fuck!_ ”

The headline was just the precursor, for the story itself was truly terrible. Miles had hit it right on the nose when he called Simon Balcairn a _weasel,_ for no other animal would sneak around outside of windows searching for gossip to spread. His column, tawdry as always, read as follows:

 _Miles Malpractice strikes again! After tossing a glass of _Lord Settrington’s_  finest champagne in Lord Balcairn’s face in the midst of a drunken fit at_  _the Duke's party last night, the insatiable dandy dragged London’s new golden boy and the victor of this year’s Goodwood Cup, one Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, off to corrupt him and tempt him into sin. How ghastly! How absolutely obscene!_

_The two were caught in Lady Hilda’s winter parlour, shut up for the season, in a truly compromising position on her favourite settee; when confronted with the situation, Lady Hilda exclaimed that she “never could have imagined such filth taking place on the couch where her children used to open their Christmas presents.” The Duke declared that it will “have to be burnt” to cleanse the parlour of the outrageous obscenity which took place there._

_Poor Mr. Crowley – yet another victim falls prey to Miles the Menace! First Charlie Harker, and now this! Former Goodwood champion, Tiger Leboucher, even disclosed that Miles attempted to beguile him before he married the lovely Mrs. Elizabeth Francis-Leboucher, but he fought off his advances like a PROPER tiger. A good show!_

_W_ _ho will be next? When will Miles Malpractice’s reign of terror end?_

_Meanwhile, the enchanting Nina Blount made an appearance at the party as well, wearing a fetching summer dress of yellow floral-print. Will she start a trend? Only time will tell…_

 

The couch. The bloody _couch._ They’d made a point to fix _each other_ up, but neither of them had thought to right the sheet that covered the couch before they returned to the ballroom – and, somehow, Simon had known to include that detail in his story. All that the Duke and Lady Hilda would have to do would be to take a peek in the parlour and they would know that _something_ had happened there – and that proof could be incriminating.

Panic clear on his face and in his eyes, Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt hands touch his shoulders – Miles’ hands, to be precise. He’d risen and dressed in a pair of Crowley’s trousers and one of his white shirts, and he looked so terribly _happy_ when Crowley looked up at him. He was so _happy_ and it was all about to be washed away.

Smiling curiously, Miles carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair and asked, “You’re awfully jumpy this morning. What’s gotten into you?”

Crowley swallowed roughly, unable to say anything. His smile slipping slightly, Miles let his gaze drift down to the paper that was still spread out on the breakfast table. As soon as his eyes alit on the Chatterbox column, he made a strangled, horrified sound.

“No,” he wheezed, stumbling backward and away from the table after skimming a few lines, his back colliding with the china cabinet that stood against the wall. A single teacup fell from its hook inside and shattered. “No, no, _no…_ Not _again…_ ” Miles moaned miserably, sinking down to sit on the floor. Crowley quickly got to his feet and moved to crouch down beside him, only looking up when Mr. Patterson walked in, a small frown on the butler's lips.

“Sir? Miss Runcible is on the telephone; she says it’s quite urgent. Shall I patch her through to the line in here?”

Almost terrified to consent, for fear of what Agatha had to say, Crowley swallowed again and rasped out, “Yes. Yes, please, Patterson; patch her through.”

“Very well, sir.”

Patterson walked back out and, while he waited, Crowley laid a hand on Miles’ shoulder. Miles had curled into a ball with his back to the cabinet, his knees hugged to his chest and his face hidden against them. As he trembled and made wretched noises, he repeatedly sobbed, “ _Not again, not again, please, not again, not again, not again, not again…_ ”

Pressing his lips as comfortingly as he could manage to the top of Miles’ head, Crowley cringed when the phone rang on its small table in the corner of the dining room. Rising to his feet, he strode quickly over and picked it up.

“Agatha. Have you seen-?”

“ _Is Miles with you?_ ” she asked, her voice as urgent as Patterson had implied, and Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, he is. I think you ought to come; he just saw the-”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Agatha cut in, her voice trembling, “ _Lady Maitland just rang me. The police are at the Abbey._ ”

All of the blood drained from Crowley’s face at her statement and he nearly dropped the phone. Tossing a panicked look over at Miles, who was still trembling and muttering to himself, Crowley finally thought to look at the clock that stood on the table with the telephone; it was past noon. The _Daily Herald_ had been in circulation for _hours_ now; plenty of time for the Duke to have read the article, checked his parlour, and confirmed the gossip.

“You must be joking,” he rasped, rather desperately. “They can’t do that – they can’t! Not based upon _a rumpled sheet on a couch_. Anyone could have done that! They’ve got no proof that it was us; they can’t-!”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Agatha cut in again, and she sounded as if she were crying. “ _They found letters that he’d kept, tucked away somewhere in his dressing table – letters from **you**. They can’t prove that you wrote them - you signed them ‘A.J.’, evidently, not with your full name – but they’re proof enough that Miles… that he… oh, Crowley, it’s dreadful! It’s horrid! It’s too much, really, it is!_” Choking on a sob, she finished, “ _They’ve put a warrant out for his arrest; they’re charging him with… with…!_ ”

“Gross indecency,” Crowley finished, for it didn’t take much guesswork. Agatha’s miserable noise was answer enough. Not waiting for her to say anything else, he demanded, “Be at the port in an hour.”

“ _Be… Be what-?_ ”

“The port. An hour. Exactly one hour. Pack a bag and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

“ _Crowley-_ ”

Hanging up the phone without waiting for a further reply, Crowley walked over and took hold of Miles' arms, tugging him to his feet. He was properly hyperventilating now; he’d clearly heard the words “gross indecency” and it was more than he could handle.

“The police are at your house. They found the letters that I sent you.”

“ _No_ …” Miles choked out through his desperate attempts to catch a breath, tears pouring down his cheeks.

“They’re using them as proof to charge you with gross indecency and they’ve got a warrant out for your arrest; they can’t charge me because they can’t prove that I’m the one who wrote them.”

Everything that he said was terribly matter-of-fact and Miles made an awful, broken noise as his knees buckled. Crowley caught him and held him up as the sound drew Mr. Patterson back to the room, along with Ms. Crawford and Lucy, the maid.

“ _Crowley_ …” Miles whimpered, his voice shaking as much as the rest of him was, and Crowley carefully held him up to keep him from crumpling entirely.

“It’s going to be fine,” Crowley whispered, still speaking as though that were just another fact. Shifting to lift him fully into his arms, one tucking beneath his knees so that he could carry him, Crowley stated, “I’m getting you out of England. _Patterson!_ ”

The butler, along with the cook and the maid, all hurried along to follow as Crowley carried Miles back to the bedroom, where he gently deposited him back down onto the bed.

“Sir?” Patterson asked, clearly not sure what to do with himself. Crowley was already busy bustling around the room, packing two suitcases.

“I’m going to America,” he declared and Patterson blinked.

“For how long, sir?”

It was not an unusual statement; Crowley did, after all, make trips to America all the time at the beginning of his nefarious career. Crowley’s answer, however, was not standard.

“Indefinitely. You have a choice; you’re aware that the penthouse is willed to you and Marjorie and, should I disappear indefinitely, you are to do with the property as you will. The same goes for my fortune; it’s to be broken up between you, Crawford and Lucy, and those residing in South Downs respectively, with a portion set aside for Esther Sundholm.”

“I’m aware, sir,” Patterson stated, growing increasingly anxious. “But, the choice?”

“Your choice is this,” Crowley stated, snapping both suitcases shut before turning to face the three servants. “You can stay here, tell the police I’ve gone away on business, and then claim what’s been willed to you when I don’t return within the specified three months – or you can come with us.”

Looking at Ms. Crawford and Lucy, he added, “You have the same choice. I can’t promise you that the life we find in America will be as comfortable as this one, but I do have money set aside over there; if going to America is of interest to any of you, I _can_ promise you that you will have a position there, wherever we should end up.”

Miles, still trembling, rolled over and timidly asked, “America…?”

Nodding, Crowley sat on the edge of the bed and brushed Miles’ sweat-dampened curls away from his forehead, explaining, “I’ve got a ship in port; it’s headed for New York at two o’clock. We’re going to be on it.”

Seemingly baffled, Miles asked, “…we…?”

“Of course, _we_ ,” Crowley insisted, wiping away the tears that were clinging to Miles’ cheeks, “and Agatha, if she makes it in time. What – you didn’t think I was just going to _let this happen,_ did you? It’s _my fault_. It’s my fault we were at that race, and it’s my fault that we were at that party, and _I_ dragged you into that parlour. I asked you to kiss me. I got you into this mess; now I’m going to get you out of it. We’re going to go to New York, _together_ , and we’ll figure the rest out from there.”

More tears flooding his eyes, Miles choked out, “ _Crowley_ … They aren’t even after you! You’ve got an entire life here; your ships, and the vineyard, and… I… I can’t take you away from that, I _can’t_ -!”

Once again, Crowley took Miles’ chin in his hand and quieted him with a kiss – shamelessly, right in front of his staff. They didn’t seem to mind; in fact, Lucy was sniffling and drying tears of her own. She liked Master Crowley, and she liked Mr. Maitland; he’d told her the first time they met that she had “fetching blonde curls – the sort girls in motion pictures have.” Neither of them deserved what had fallen upon their heads.

When Crowley drew back, he looked Miles in the eye and stated, “I’ve got no life here if I haven’t got you. Don’t you _understand_ that? You are the _only thing_ that has kept me in Europe for the past year. I was bored to tears before I met you. That night at the Ritz? That was going to be my _last_ night in London. I was going to take the train to South Downs in the morning, say goodbye to Esther, and then relocate back to America. I _stayed_ because of _you_ , Miles; I stayed because you were charming and witty, and you made me laugh for the first time in _ages_ , and I stayed because I knew, _desperately_ , that I wanted to kiss you – but, more than that, I stayed because I wanted to _know_ you. You were the first person with more than a sixpence to your name to accept me; you never sneered that I was _new money_ or thought that you were too good for me. You were different, and you are wonderful and fascinating, and you are breathtakingly beautiful inside and out, and _I love you_.”

Miles looked beside himself, on the verge of either crying some more or fainting, and Crowley stroked his curls as he proposed, “Come away with me, Miles Maitland; leave this mess of a city and all of its miserable, petty, cruel people behind and start anew. Start anew _with me_.”

Reaching shaking hands out to cup Crowley’s cheeks, Miles snivelled and whispered, “I don’t deserve you, my darling. I don’t…”

“You _do,_ ” Crowley insisted, giving him another chaste kiss and Miles sniffled and, after a moment taken to compose himself, he gave his answer by nodding.

“I want to come, too,” Lucy spoke up, taking a small step forward. “If you’ll have me, sir?”

“Of course,” Crowley agreed, pulling Miles close to his side as he sat on the edge of the bed, and Patterson nodded, too.

“I do believe you’ll be needing a butler in New York just as much as you do in London, sir – and Lord knows the Americans don’t know how to properly shine silver or decanter a good vintage.”

Grinning, Crowley shook his head and, chuckling, mused, “I’m afraid they’re not supposed to know how to do that last bit anymore, Patterson; it’s _quite_ illegal.”

“Hogwash, that is. Utter hogwash,” Patterson muttered, scratching his mustache before stating, “I’ll still go, though. I’m sure we can sneak in a bottle or two…”

Looking between the other two servants, Ms. Crawford took a breath before nodding, smiling timidly and stating, “Mr. Maitland _is_ so terribly particular about his eggs and I’ve only _just_ gotten the knack of them; how can I rightfully place that burden upon some other poor soul?”

Curled against Crowley’s side, Miles actually managed a laugh.

“It’s settled, then,” Crowley decreed, squeezing his arm around Miles. “Pack your bags, quickly; I’ll write to the staff at Gordon Park at the first opportunity, giving them the same option as you lot.”

With a bow and two curtsies, Patterson, Ms. Crawford and Lucy all hurried off to ready their belongings and notify their families. Looking down at Miles, Crowley kissed his forehead and tenderly mused, “You’ll love New York, darling; they call it the London of America, y’know.”

Sniffling once more, Miles lifted a hand, which was only quivering now, to dry his cheeks as he mused, cuddled close to Crowley, “I _have_ always fancied myself fit for Broadway…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the grand finale, folks! I would just like to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading this story; it's been an adventure and a delight to write, and I'm still so happy that others are enjoying it as much as I am. <3


	6. Mr. & Mr. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In New York City, Miles gets a taste of the life that Crowley used to lead.

It didn’t take long at all for Miles Maitland to come to the conclusion that sailing across the ocean felt very similar to a particularly dreadful hangover. The room swayed even while he was lying down and he felt perpetually ill – although the latter could also be attributed to the depression that had sunk into his bones back in London and refused to be shaken.

They managed to escape unnoticed, thanks to nothing short of a miracle given there were people looking out for him _literally everywhere._ It wasn’t just the police; all of London had read Chatterbox’s scandalous column and word had spread quickly that there was a warrant out for his arrest. _Gross indecency_. That was what everyone he knew, and a great many people he didn’t, now thought of him; that he was _grossly indecent_. How was that fair? How could a love that he felt so deeply, so _profoundly_ , be classified as something so vulgar-sounding as _gross indecency?_ How could _loving someone_ be a crime severe enough for him to lose everything – his family, his home, his identity? Moreover, how could Simon have subjected him to such a cruel punishment over something as silly as a faceful of champagne?

Therefore, he was miserable. Utterly miserable to the point of being sick with it. He’d managed to escape persecution, but at what cost? They still had newspapers in America – and gossip columns. He would have to change his name, change practically everything about himself, and soon enough he wouldn’t even recognize his own reflection in the mirror anymore – and that thought _terrified_ him. Because yes – Crowley loved him. Crowley loved him enough to risk everything and to leave his entire life behind just to keep Miles safe. But would he still love him when he wasn’t Miles Maitland anymore? What was stopping him from leaving, just like everyone else had?

The only small comfort that Miles had to hold onto was that Agatha, with only a single bag in hand when she arrived at the pier, had agreed to come with them. She’d agreed without even stopping to consider all that she would be leaving behind in London. When Crowley filled her in on his plan, she’d just smiled a teary smile, hugged Miles as tightly as she could, and insisted, “ _I’m with you until the end, sugarplum._ ” He’d burst into a fresh wave of tears at that.

Now, however, they had been sailing for four days and Miles hadn’t come out of the quarters that he, Crowley and Agatha were occupying since they stepped onto the ship. No amount of coaxing could pull him out of bed. The captain had asked Crowley more than once if Miles was ill, partially out of concern but more so because he didn’t want to risk his men catching whatever Master Crowley’s friend was plagued with. He’d insisted each time that sailing was simply a new experience for Miles and that he was, like so many newcomers, plagued only by seasickness. That was, of course, a lie – and Crowley and Agatha were growing more worried with every passing day. At this rate, he was going to wither away to nothing before they even made it halfway to New York.

“He wouldn’t eat anything when I brought him breakfast this morning,” Agatha stated as she and Crowley stood on the top deck, looking out at the endless waves that stretched all the way to the horizon. There was a cool breeze blowing up at them, making Agatha’s shawl flutter and covering Crowley’s sunglasses with ocean spray.

Plucking the sunglasses off and wiping them dry with his sleeve, Crowley pursed his lips together and stared down into the grey water below. The day was a cloudy one; he wouldn’t be surprised if it rained. He’d hoped to coax Miles outside for some fresh air before that happened, but that outcome seemed increasingly unlikely.

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes and rubbing them. He’d barely been sleeping since they started their journey, too worried about Miles’ declining state to rest easily even though they shared the same bed each night. He was thoroughly exhausted. “Nothing that I do or say seems to be helping. I thought that we’d get out of London and then everything would be _fine_ , but…”

“He _has_ lost a great deal…” Agatha stated, leaning against the ship’s railing and glancing over in Crowley’s direction. “I don’t think it’s the money or the status that’s upsetting him; it’s more likely his family than anything else. The first time Simon suggested anything untoward… it nearly tore them all apart.”

Frowning, Crowley turned his head to meet Agatha’s gaze. It was no secret that this wasn’t the first time that Simon Balcairn had used Miles’ sexual ambiguity to turn a profit, but Miles had never really mentioned how his family reacted before. He’d suggested that it gave his mother quite a shock, but aside from that…

“You don’t know, do you?” Agatha asked when she noticed Crowley’s perplexed expression. Pursing her lips, she took a moment before explaining, “Back when that story about Miles and Charlie Harker was the gossip circulating in everyone’s parlour, it caused quite a kerfuffle. Lady Maitland was so ashamed that she took to her bedroom and didn’t come out for nearly two weeks; she couldn’t bear all of her ‘friends’ saying such wretched things about her son. Lord Maitland’s reaction was worse. You see, Miles’ sister Margaret had just gotten engaged the same week that story was published – I do believe it was to Lord Stevenson’s son, Robbie. Well, Lord Stevenson didn’t want _his_ son to be ‘corrupted by Miles the Menace’ – so he forced Robbie to retract his proposal. Margaret was humiliated; she was quite fond of Robbie. Lord Maitland was _furious_ about the whole thing; he went to his attorney and had paperwork drawn up to disown Miles entirely in order to save the family’s reputation.”

“All this over a bloody _gossip column?_ ” Crowley snapped, disgust dripping from his tone and clear in his gaze, and Agatha gave a resigned nod.

“Gossip is society’s bread and butter, darling; it makes the social world go ‘round and can, quite literally, make or break you. The only thing that _stopped_ Lord Maitland from going through with the disowning was Adam calling Simon and forcing him to go to Metroland Abbey and swear it was all stuff and nonsense. After that, Lord Maitland swore that, if he ever saw Simon in his house again, he’d kill him.”

“And what about Margaret?” Crowley asked, still frowning. “Did she and Robbie ever-?”

“I’m afraid not,” Agatha sighed, hugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders against the wind. “The damage was already done. Why do you think poor Miles hardly ever spends any time at home unless he has to be there? Margaret’s never forgiven him for the whole mess and she makes it abundantly clear. Now… Well, now I suppose he’s lost all of them, hasn’t he? It’s not as though he can write a letter explaining the situation; they’d never understand, and they’d never forgive him even if they did.”

Frowning deeply, Crowley put his sunglasses back on and moved away from the railing, starting toward the stairs to the lower deck.

“Go and see if Ms. Crawford will make some tea and toast, won’t you? He’s got to eat _something._ It’s been four bloody days.”

Furrowing her brow, Agatha followed Crowley down the stairs to head to the ship’s galley, asking, “What are you going to do?”

Crowley just kept walking.

* * *

When he reached their shared room, the curtains were drawn over the porthole in the wall and all of the lanterns and candles were snuffed out, leaving the room in near-total darkness. The air was stuffy in the sort of way it tends to be in hospitals or other places in which people spend days on end, and there was an unmistakable aura of sadness thrumming from corner to corner. On one side of the room was Agatha’s bed, neatly made by Lucy earlier in the day, and on the other side of the room was the bed Crowley had been sharing with Miles. A mop of dark curls was poking out from beneath the blankets and that was virtually all that Crowley could see; Miles was facing the wall and hadn’t turned when he heard the door open. He may still have been sleeping. Over on the writing desk, there was a tray laden with bacon and eggs and a pot of coffee, all of which had long-since gone cold, and all of which were entirely untouched. Frowning, Crowley shut the door behind him and strode over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“You can’t stay in bed forever, you know – and that’s coming from someone who _loves_ staying in bed,” Crowley mused, pulling his sunglasses off and dropping them onto the bedside table. When Miles didn’t respond, choosing instead to simply stare at the wall, Crowley sighed. As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the room, he could see that there were silent tears trailing down Miles’ cheeks; the sight was enough to break his heart.

Lifting a hand, Crowley tenderly dragged his fingers through Miles’ hair, repeating the gesture as many times as it was going to take to make him feel even a smidgeon better. When all he managed to pull from Miles was a weak little sniffle and more silent tears, Crowley felt the ache in his chest spread. He had to do _something –_ and, after listening to Agatha, he had a fairly good idea of what that ‘something’ needed to be.

Shifting to lie down behind Miles, Crowley wound an arm around his torso and tangled their fingers together, his other hand still gently playing with Miles’ hair as he asked, “Have you given any thought to what you’ll change your name to?”

That garnered a reaction, although not the one Crowley had hoped for. He felt Miles shudder in his arms and choke out half a sob, his eyes squeezing shut. Frowning, Crowley pressed a kiss to the top of his head, tenderly shushing him and giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’m only asking because… well, I’ve got an idea. Half an idea, at least.”

When Miles didn’t say anything and just continued to tremble in his arms, Crowley held him closer and pressed a gentle kiss beneath his ear, whispering, “What would you say to ‘Crowley’? You know, as a surname?”

In his arms, Miles’ breath hitched and he went from trembling to being incredibly still. Upon examination, Crowley realized that his eyes were open again – open and _wide._ He looked thoroughly shell-shocked.

Finally gracing Crowley’s ears with the sound of his voice, he shakily asked, “W… _What_ …?”

“Crowley,” he repeated, giving Miles’ hand a squeeze and sweeping his thumb against his palm. “We could tell everyone that you’re my brother; that way no one will question our living together. Not to mention…”

Humming thoughtfully, Crowley let go of Miles’ hand and reached up, pulling his favourite ruby ring set it silver from his forefinger. Without giving it a second thought, he slid it onto the ring finger of Miles’ left hand. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would serve the purpose (for now).

“…I suppose having you go by ‘Crowley’ is as close as I’ll ever get to having you as my husband, isn’t it? I quite fancy the idea of people calling you ‘Mr. Crowley’. I’ve fancied it for a while now. Since Italy, I think.”

Miles was gaping at the ring on his finger, his breathing laboured. This was clearly the last thing that he had expected Crowley to suggest and, once again, he was quivering. Noting that poor Miles seemed at a loss for words, Crowley softened his voice and added, “We’re family, love. You and me. You’re all the family that I need.”

After a few long moments of shocked silence, Miles finally asked, “You… You want me to be _Mr. Crowley?_ ”

“I do.”

“You want to _marry_ me?”

“In secret and with no real legally binding documents that say so, but yes.”

“You want _me_ to be your… your… _your_ …?”

Turning over in Crowley’s grasp, Miles gaped at him. Smirking, Crowley leaned forward to brush his lips against Miles’, tenderly whispering the word, “ _Husband_.”

Miles exhaled a strangled little noise before flinging his arms around Crowley’s neck and kissing him, his trembling hands sliding down to cup Crowley’s face. Smiling against Miles’ lips, Crowley pressed a hand to the small of his back and tugged him closer.

You see, he simply couldn’t abide by Miles thinking that he was embarking upon this journey alone – nor could he bear the thought of Miles feeling that he had left all of his family behind. Sod the Maitlands; Miles didn’t need a family who couldn’t accept him and had all but disowned him. Miles deserved a family that _loved_ him, and they would build precisely that – _together._

When they finally broke apart, Miles found himself smiling – _really_ smiling – for the first time in days as he giddily whispered, “Mr. and Mr. Crowley. Now _that_ has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“A wonderful ring,” Crowley agreed, grinning and pressing his lips to Miles’ forehead. Just like that, things seemed to be a bit brighter; there was still a certain level of uncertainty to Miles’ movements, and some of his smiles were rather forced, but he was getting better. He wasn’t quite so scared anymore.

A few days later, while they walked arm-in-arm on the ship’s deck and took in the ocean air and the way the sun glittered upon the waves, Miles mused, “I _have_ been mulling over a few different names. What do you think of ‘Ezra’?”

* * *

New York was, in many ways, not all that different from London. There was a constant bustle of people, the noisy horns of several impatient drivers clogging the streets, and a plethora of shops on every corner – but London had all of that, too.

What Miles _really_ noticed upon their arrival, more than the congested sidewalks, the noise, and the new shopping outlets, was that _nobody was staring at them._ He was hard-pressed to recall a single day back across the pond where people weren’t snapping photographs and yapping at his heels; it was simply part of the lifestyle that came with being born into money. From a young age, he’d be a recognizable figure and a person of interest, but in New York? In New York, none of the passersby even gave him a second glance.

It was… oddly thrilling, truth be told.

“I’ve just realized,” he mused, whilst sitting in a taxicab between Crowley and Agatha with Ms. Crawford and Lucy sitting opposite them, “that I could run down the street here stark naked and nobody would print my name in the papers. _Nobody._ ”

“Perhaps not,” Agatha mused in return, smirking, “but they _would_ still print a story about the stark-raving mad, anonymous nude man terrorizing the city’s streets.”

“Maybe we should do our best to _avoid_ making the front page of the _New York Times_ for public nudity, hmm?” Crowley quipped, arching an eyebrow over his dark sunglasses, and Miles rolled his eyes at both of them.

“ _Obviously_ I wasn’t being _serious_. If I’m going to make a name for myself here, it will be for something far more dignified than _streaking_.”

“Quite smart,” Agatha agreed, flipping the page of the _New Yorker_ magazine she had nabbed at a newsstand down by the pier, grinning all the while. “Streaking is _terribly_ 1918\. You’ll need to be more inventive this time around.”

“What?” Crowley asked, turning his head to stare at them both.

“I’m thinking of trying my hand at acting,” Miles pressed on, ignoring Crowley’s clear confusion, much to Lucy’s amusement. The maid was trying her very best to hide her laughter by looking intently down at the knitting poised in her lap.

“Ooooh, _acting._ You _were_ a dreadfully good Algernon Moncrieff in that troop production back in… oh, when was it? The spring of 1920?”

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ” Crowley repeated, pulling off his sunglasses. “How about we return for a moment to you _streaking in 1918?_ ”

Glancing over at him, Miles simply smirked like he had a naughty secret – a very naughty secret, indeed.

“What happens at Oxford _stays_ at Oxford, my dear,” he declared, placing a finger at his lips. “I’m afraid my lips are sealed.”

Making a noise that teetered somewhere between annoyance and disappointment, Crowley shoved his sunglasses back on and glanced out the window, leaning forward a moment later and tapping on the glass partition separating them from the cab driver.

“Just pull off here,” he instructed, prompting the driver to pull over in front of a row of well-kept brownstones, all crawling with ivy and pink roses and sporting brightly painted doors.

Lowering his own sunglasses as they all climbed out onto the street, bags in hand, a smile tugged at Miles’ lips as he mused, “How _charming._ ”

Crowley, handing the driver the necessary number of bills through the window for the trip and seeing him off, ventured over onto the sidewalk to join them all, twirling a ring of keys on his finger.

“It’s not Metroland Abbey,” he mused, glancing over at Miles with a grin and an arched eyebrow, “but do you think it’ll do?”

“Oh, I think it will do _nicely_ ,” Miles agreed, tossing Crowley an affectionate glance over the top of his sunglasses. Crowley looked immensely pleased with himself as he turned his attention back to the keys in his hand, holding them up.

“Right then! This one’s for you,” he stated, plucking a key from the ring and handing it to Agatha, gesturing toward the brownstone with the pink door. Pulling another key from the ring, he turned to Lucy and Ms. Crawford, musing, “For you,” as he gestured to the yellow door. They both looked rather startled – but, in truth, so did Agatha and Miles. Crowley, to his credit, didn’t seem to notice. He simply pressed on after passing Ms. Crawford the key, pointing toward the brownstone with the blue door, “ _That_ one will be for Patterson and Marjorie once they arrive, and _this_ one…” Pulling another key from the ring, Crowley’s grin was unwavering as he placed it in Miles’ palm, placing his hands on his shoulders and turning him to face the brownstone on the corner with the bright red door. “This one is _ours_.”

Blinking several times, a rather flabbergasted Miles managed to say, “It’s… It’s _crimson._ ”

“Mmhmm,” Crowley confirmed, smirking as he squeezed Miles’ shoulders, “and with plenty of room for dabbling in the obscene.”

It was Lucy who, after a beat, broke the silence that had settled over them all.

“Master Crowley, sir?” she asked, glancing at the key in Ms. Crawford’s hand before looking back at her employer, her blue eyes wide and clearly baffled. “Surely you don’t mean… for it to be _ours,_ do you? I only ask because… well, sir, the lodgings for a townhouse must be expensive, and really I’d be content, and I’m sure Ms. Crawford would be, too, with just a room-”

“Nonsense,” Crowley cut in, his hands slipping down from Miles’ shoulders to squeeze his forearms instead. Miles was still staring, stunned, at the red door. “It’s already paid for; all four of them are. You won’t owe a cent on it. You plucked up your roots and left everything behind to come on this madcap excursion with us; the least I can do is replace what you left back in London.”

“But sir,” Ms. Crawford spoke up this time, stepping forward to attempt giving Crowley the key back. “This is _more_ than-”

“It’s what you deserve,” Crowley interjected, making a point of closing her fingers around the key rather than taking it back. “You’ve put up with my nonsense for years on end; I owe you all this much. What – did you _really_ think we’d _all_ be living in one place? Privacy is a luxury - one that I can afford, and am _more_ than happy to gift.”

Ms. Crawford and Lucy exchanged glances, slowly coming to terms with the fact that nothing they could say was going to change Crowley’s mind. Agatha, sensing their discomfort with such a large gift, broke the tension by exclaiming, “Oh, darlings, this will be such _fun._ We can have parties – proper _girls’ nights_ – without having to worry about these two bursting in and spoiling things.”

Miles, finally snapping out of his trancelike state, turned his head and asked, “When have I _ever_ spoiled a party? I _am_ the party!”

“At my sixteenth birthday party, you drank an entire bottle of champagne all on your own, stole my mother’s fur coat, and then rode one of Granny’s horses through the gardens.”

“That _hardly_ sounds like _ruining-_ ”

“The horse broke the wings clean off of the angel fountain that had been in that garden since before the French revolution.”

“ _Well,_ I-”

“And the champagne made you vomit on the roses.”

“ _Really_ , I-”

“And you never gave back mother’s coat.”

Blushing, Miles glanced around for a moment before declaring, “It looked far better on me than it did on her, anyway.”

Humming thoughtfully, Agatha mused, “That’s true.”

Looking between the two, Lucy finally declared with a small smile, “A girl’s party sounds nice.”

Her eyes lighting up, Agatha cried, “Wonderful! We’ll need champagne – pink, not white – and proper, fancy pajamas, and more of these _New Yorker_ magazines, and-”

“Agatha, darling,” Crowley interjected, his hand poised at Miles’ elbow, “Why don’t you hold off on the party planning until you’ve stepped across the threshold?”

“Oh,” Agatha mused, looking back at the pink door with a nod. “I suppose that would be wise. You can hardly order ice sculptures until you know the dimensions, can you?”

Crowley gave a nod in the affirmative, as if that had been his thought, as well. Thankfully, that was enough to send Agatha up the front steps and to her door, where she promptly turned the key and stepped inside. Her giddy exclamation of, “ _Oh, how darling!_ ” could be heard from inside.

Promptly afterward, Ms. Crawford gave into temptation and ascended to the yellow door, as well, with Lucy at her heels. Finally, Crowley looked down at Miles and smirked, gesturing to their own door as he asked, “Care to do the honours?”

“How _did_ you arrange for all of this?” Miles found himself asking as the two of them walked up their own front steps to their own front door ( _and **that** was a charming thought, wasn’t it? Their own front door_), where he slipped the key into the lock. Crowley just shrugged.

“It didn’t take much arranging, really. I’ve owned these for _years_ ; I thought real estate might be a worthwhile endeavor, in case I ever felt the desire to come back. I sent a telegram over to have them refurbished last year, when I was thinking of leaving London for good. You know, before…”

Quirking his lips up, Miles playfully asked, “Before you met me?”

His smirk returning, Crowley confirmed, “Precisely. Go on, then, _Mr. Crowley;_ get inside and give it a look over.”

Giggling upon hearing ‘Mr. Crowley’ once again, the ruby ring still a comfortable weight on his left hand, Miles turned the lock and pushed the heavy red door open to step inside.

Crowley was right. It certainly wasn’t Metroland Abbey.

It was _better_.

It didn’t matter that it didn’t have forty-two bedrooms, a stable, or a private garden; _none_ of that mattered. What mattered was that it was _theirs_ , and Miles knew, from the second that he crossed the threshold, that he could be happy there. Metroland Abbey had been a grand house, but this place already felt like _home._

It was actually quite lovely, regardless of being smaller than he was used to. It had an air of having been freshly cleaned in anticipation of the old owners’ return; the black and white checkerboard titles that made up the entry hall floor had been polished to a gleaming shine, as had the white marble staircase with its wrought iron railing. The iron curled in the shape of ivy and roses, mimicking the coiling plant life amassing on the brick exterior, and it was _lovely._ Everything about it was lovely, Miles quickly decided, from the ornate rug that ran the length of the stairs to the chandelier poised above their heads on the high ceiling. The windows up above had been left open, and the breeze that filtered in made the crystal droplets tinkle.

Dropping his bag by the foot of the stairs, Miles smiled and blissfully declared, “It’s _perfect._ ”

Stepping up behind him, Crowley’s hands once again found Miles’ shoulders as he grinned curiously, declaring, “You’ve barely seen any of it yet. How can you already know it’s perfect?”

Looking up to meet Crowley’s gaze, Miles pulled his sunglasses off and stated softly, “I just know.”

It was then that Crowley noticed that, despite his smile, Miles’ eyes were filling with tears, and quickly it all made sense. Of _course_ it was perfect; they were still together, weren’t they? They’d escaped the danger that Simon had heaped upon his head. _Anything_ would be perfect in comparison to where Miles _could_ have ended up. Swallowing the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, Crowley turned Miles around so they were properly facing each other, making a point of tugging his own sunglasses off before he stated, “You know that I love you, don’t you?”

Exhaling a teary laugh, Miles nodded, his own hands finding Crowley’s forearms. Giving a pointed look upward and all around, he playfully stated, “I rather think I do know. It’s becoming terribly hard to overlook.”

Winding his arms around Miles’ middle, Crowley pulled him closer and asked, “And you know that I would do anything for you? Absolutely anything you asked of me?”

His expression softening, Miles sniffled and nodded, leaning into Crowley’s embrace.

“I do,” he confirmed as a tear escaped and trickled down his cheek. “I just hope that… that I don’t ask _too much_ of you. I highly doubt that all of this is what you had in mind that night at the Ritz, and I-”

Effectively hushing Miles up with a kiss, Crowley nudged him until his back was pressed against the railing of the staircase before lifting both hands to Miles’ cheeks, brushing his tears away with both thumbs and cradling his face as though he were something precious – because he was. When they finally parted, Crowley stayed a mere inch away from Miles’ lips as he declared, “Nothing you do or say could ever be ‘too much’ for me. You’re exactly what I want…”

His hands trembling, Miles tightened his hold on Crowley’s arms and tugged him closer to kiss him again, with more passion this time. It was mere seconds before both of his hands were flying up to knot his fingers into Crowley’s brilliantly red hair while he sucked at his bottom lip, effectively drawing a surprised groan from deep in Crowley’s throat. Such was precisely what Miles had aspired to do; Crowley’s hands sliding down and gripping the lapels of his jacket was simply a pleasant consequence.

Parting for the briefest of breaths as Crowley pinned him to the iron with his hips, Miles teasingly asked, “Am I ‘exactly what you want’ right _now_ …?”

Growling softly, Crowley trailed a hot path of kisses over Miles’ cheek and brought his lips to hover near his ear, whispering, “ _Minx_ ” before his teeth scraped against the ever-so-sensitive spot just beneath his earlobe. The action earned a surprised gasp and a delicious little moan of anticipation.

“You love it when I’m a minx,” Miles declared, tipping his head to the side to allow for more of Crowley’s kisses to travel down his neck.

“I do,” Crowley declared, his voice muffled against Miles’ skin as he busied himself with pushing his darling dandy’s coat from his shoulders.

“And you love _me_ ,” Miles added, smirking as he raked his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley, who was busy unknotting Miles’ bowtie with his teeth, murmured as he pulled, “ _I do_.”

A flush of happiness colouring Miles’ cheeks, he laughed when Crowley, smirking, tugged the bowtie from his collar and tossed it aside. He was all too happy to have Crowley crowd him up against the railing and to have his skilled fingers dance up and down his arms as Crowley asked, “And what about me? Don’t _you_ love _me?_ ”

His pout looked far too deliciously inviting, and Miles hummed as he skillfully wedged a leg between Crowley’s knees, leaning his whole body forward so that their lips were a hair’s breadth apart and his leg pressed against the increasingly more prominent bulge in Crowley’s trousers.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he sighed, smirking as Crowley’s breath hitched. “My dearest, darling Anthony… Don’t you know how _desperately_ I love you? How _mad_ I am with it? I love you so deeply, so _intensely_ , that you’re on my mind every waking moment and you’re the last thing I think about before I fall asleep…”

A shudder rippling through his body, Crowley rocked his hips forward and raked his nails down the front of Miles’ shirt, breathlessly asking, “And what do you think about…?”

“When, dearheart?” Miles asked, toying delicately with Crowley’s hair near the nape of his neck. “Before I fall asleep?”

Crowley nodded, his breathing growing rather ragged.

Miles smirked, a spark flashing in his hazel eyes. Brushing his lips against Crowley’s, he whispered, “I think about _ravishing_ you, darling… I think about pulling your pretty hair and making you whimper my name like a _terribly_ naughty prayer…”

“ _Fuck_ , I…”

His eyes narrowing, perhaps a bit drunk on the power he had over Crowley with just a simple fantasy, Miles licked his lips and reached down, deftly unbuttoning Crowley’s trousers and slipping his fingers inside. Crowley gasped beneath Miles’ touch only to exhale a keening moan mere seconds later when he felt the cool brush of the silver ring poised on his finger brush against his cock. It was almost too much; his touch, combined with the utterly intoxicating knowledge that Miles was _his –_ that he _wanted to be_ his.

Smirking, Miles curled his fingers around Crowley and ran his hand along the length of his cock, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, “Say my name, darling.”

Hissing beneath his touch, Crowley found himself grabbing onto the iron railing with one hand while his other clutched at Miles’ shirt. How had he gotten himself into this position? _He_ had been the one who propositioned Miles by pushing him up against the staircase, and _now…_

“Bloody _fucking_ hell, _Miles_ , I-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Miles tutted, wagging the index finger of his free hand in front of Crowley’s eyes, noting that his pupils were presently blown so wide that only the slightest ring of golden brown was still visible. “My _proper_ name.”

Furrowing his brow, unsure of what Miles wanted from him, Crowley shakily asked, “…Ezra-?”

Smirking, Miles shook his head and leaned forward, his breath tickling Crowley’s ear while he slowly continued to stroke him. Finally, giving Crowley’s cock a teasing squeeze, he whispered, “ _Mr. Crowley…_ ”

A choked moan broke free from Crowley’s lips and his hips jerked in response to hearing _that_ , so tantalizingly, whispered into his ear. _Bloody hell,_ it sounded good; so good, in fact, that he couldn’t help the way his face screwed up as every muscle in his core went taut. He stopped breathing for a second, his heart pounding in his chest, before he bent forward and buried his face in the crook of Miles’ neck, a _loud_ moan muffled against his skin as Crowley came apart, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. His trousers were undoubtedly going to be beyond saving, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything aside from rocking his hips against Miles’ hand, trembling, and whimpering a long string of profanities along with Miles’ name and the Lord’s name, interchangeably.

Miles looked all too pleased with his handiwork (pun intended) when Crowley was finally able to lift his head. Smirking, he pulled his hand from Crowley’s trousers and sucked his fingers clean, musing, “I thought that might do it.”

Groaning, Crowley dropped his head to Miles’ shoulder and mumbled, “Smug bastard…”

Miles just giggled.

“Care to show me to the bedroom, darling?” he asked, earning a grunt of affirmation from Crowley. It took the redhead a few moments to gather his bearings enough to move around the railing and start up the staircase, pulling Miles along after him by the hand that _hadn’t_ just made him see stars.

“Bedroom. Yes. Good idea.” Rolling his shoulders, he mumbled, “Could use a nap after that…”

“Oh, dearheart, don’t be so _silly_ ,” Miles objected as they walked into the bedroom. The walls were a lovely shade of eggshell blue, with a white bureau, dressing table and wardrobe. The bed was a simple king-sized mattress poised on a white iron bedframe, draped in white sheets and a pale blue, floral patterned quilt. The entire room felt crisp and clean; perfectly on brand for Crowley.

“Silly…?” Crowley asked, shrugging out of his jacket and starting to remove his cufflinks.

“Yes. Silly,” Miles confirmed, watching as Crowley deposited his cufflinks into a little glass dish on the bureau beside the bed. “I’m _hardly_ finished with you yet.”

“What-?” Crowley started to ask, only to exhale a startled exclamation of, “ _Ngk!_ ” as Miles pushed him down onto the bed and pounced on top of him.

* * *

You may be reading this and wondering, _Yes, that’s all well and good, but why didn’t Patterson and Marjorie come with them straight away?_ The answer to that question is simple. It’s because Marjorie Patterson is smart.

Marjorie Patterson is smarter than her husband. Marjorie Patterson is smarter than Anthony J. Crowley. In fact, Marjorie Patterson is smarter than all of the men in her life, and smarter than a great deal of the women in it, too.

It was Marjorie Patterson who, when her husband burst into their flat in central London and declared they were moving to America with Master Crowley, asked, _“Why in God’s name would we do that?”_

Patterson, taken aback by his wife’s question, had paused and asked, _“…because he’s been good to us?”_

_“He has.”_

_“Because we like him?”_

_“We do.”_

_“Because he needs our help getting settled in America?”_

Marjorie just stared at her husband as he recounted everything that had happened (although she’d had a fairly good idea of what was coming after reading the morning papers), and she continued to stare at him when he recounted Crowley’s plan. His plan to let his will, essentially, become utterly defunct by bringing those named in it with him to New York.

After a long while spent staring and listening, she asked, _“Why would we go with Mr. Crowley to New York when we could stay here a few months, claim his fortune for him when he’s proclaimed dead, and then make sure his money gets back to him?”_

Patterson stared at her.

_“And why would we leave the poor dears in South Downs with no clue as to what’s happening until he finds time to send a letter along when we could just as easily pop down and fill everyone in?”_

Patterson blinked.

Finally, Marjorie asked, _“How long did it take Master Crowley to come up with this plan?”_

Staring for a moment longer, Patterson stated, _“About four minutes.”_

_“Thought so.”_

And so, because she’s smart, Marjorie Patterson hatched a plan of her own, which her husband informed Master Crowley of at the pier. She and her husband were to stay put in London, claim Crowley’s fortune for him, oversee the selling off of all of his properties, and then they (and anyone from South Downs who wished to tag along) would join them all in New York in time for Christmas.

She was smart, Marjorie Patterson. Scary smart.

* * *

The first order of business, after a thoroughly satisfying romp between the sheets and a good night’s sleep on dry land, was getting Miles’ new identity properly sorted out. For that, Crowley turned to Stanley “Stan” Houlighan. Years ago, when Crowley was still smuggling alcohol into the country himself and hadn’t even reached the ripe age of twenty, Stan’s speakeasy was his top client. It wasn’t exactly a most reputable place of business; he ran it in the basement of the corner store that had been in his family for generations, and Stan did a great deal more than just give people a place to get sloshed on illegally imported British booze. Stan was also in the business of foraging signatures, laundering money, and selling unregistered firearms under the counter. He also, luckily for Miles, was in the business of selling people passable legal documents that gave them a fresh start in the world.

“Are you entirely sure about this, dear?” Miles asked as they stepped out of the cab in front of Houlighan’s place of business. Of course, Miles had known from the start that Crowley dabbled in and gained his fortune from illicit activities, but he’d never… _partaken_ in them before. Crowley was incredibly civilized for a criminal. He kept that part of his life separate from the other parts. On this occasion, though, it really couldn’t be helped.

“Of course I’m sure,” Crowley confirmed as the cab driver drove off. Leading the way up to the door, he stated, “Stan’s an old… friend, I suppose. We were in business together for years until he found somewhere cheaper to get his product. We parted on amicable terms. Besides, even if we _hadn’t_ , Stan Houlighan cares about one thing and one thing only – _money._ He’ll sell anything to anyone for the right price.”

Miles still felt terribly uneasy about the whole thing. Fidgeting with the ring on his finger, he followed Crowley inside. To the untrained eye, it really did just look like an ordinary corner store; there was an icebox in the back where bottles of milk were kept, a news rack stocked with magazines and papers, and there was candy being sold at the counter, just waiting for eager children to beg their mothers for it. Houlighan’s One-Stop Shop was entirely unassuming.

Of course, Miles still jumped when the woman behind the counter, a curvy blonde of around forty, exclaimed, “Anthony J! I’ll be damned. Is it really you?”

“In the flesh, Bess. Decided to pop back to America for good,” Crowley drawled as they approached the counter. The woman (Bess, Miles made a note) smirked.

“Too stuffy chumming around with the hoity-toity folks?” she joked and Crowley returned her smirk, shaking his head.

“Not exactly. Just fancied a change. Tell me – is Stan in? I wanted to introduce him to my brother.”

“Your brother?” Bess asked, looking at Miles. It took him a great deal of effort not to squirm beneath her gaze. “I didn’t know you had a brother. Thought you were an orphan?”

“An orphan only means I’ve got no parents. I never said anything about not having siblings,” Crowley mused, tapping his fingers on the counter. Bess just arched an eyebrow and kept her gaze on Miles.

“What’s your name, then, sweetheart?”

Miles’ eyes widened briefly at being addressed. Standing up a bit straighter, his fingers still toying with his ring, he stated, with as much confidence as he could muster, “Ezra. Ezra F. Crowley.”

Furrowing her brow, Bess asked, “What’s the F short for?”

Fidgeting, Miles glanced at Crowley before looking back at Bess, stating, “A man must have his secrets. It keeps life… interesting.”

Beside him, Crowley smirked. Bess just shrugged, stating, “That’s the same cock-and-bull nonsense Anthony said about the J when I asked him.” Pursing her lips, she muttered, “I suppose I can see the resemblance.”

“Stan?” Crowley finally repeated, drawing Bess’s attention back to himself. “Is he in?”

“Yeah, he’s in,” Bess confirmed, stepping around the counter and heading toward the shop’s backroom, where the door to the basement was hidden behind an old bookcase. “Just let me go and tell him you’re here.”

Crowley nodded and watched her go, waiting until he could hear her footsteps retreating down the stairs to playfully ask, “Alright, _Ezra F. Crowley_ , I’ll bite. What’s the F short for?”

Smirking, Miles shrugged, straightening his bowtie as he stated, “Nothing, really. I just fancied an F.”

Miles winked while Crowley snickered, and both men looked toward the backroom when Bess emerged again, gesturing them through.

“Stan’ll see you now, boys.”

“Thanks, Bess,” Crowley breezed, passing her a crisp twenty-dollar bill which she tucked into her blouse with a smirk. You see, Stan dealt in illicit activities, but Bess dealt in information. So long as you kept her palms greased, she kept quiet. But a business like Stan and Bess Houlighan ran didn’t run without drawing the occasional bit of attention from the local police. In order to keep their shop from being shut down, Bess provided the authorities with tidbits on local criminals every now and again – and those who she ratted out were always the folks who didn’t pay her well. Crowley had always made sure, even as a skinny teenager, not to wind up in Bess Houlighan’s bad books.

Watching the exchange, rather perplexed, Miles followed Crowley into the backroom and through the open door which led to the basement’s staircase. As they descended, the smell of cheap beer and poorly mulled wine began to waft around them, along with the sound of a piano being played and the chatter and laughter of several men and women. Miles had never been to a speakeasy before; the seediest bar he had ever visited back in London was Sweetings, near Whitechapel, where people tended to eat too many oysters and chat a bit too loudly about how thrilling the days of Jack the Ripper must have been. It was nothing like… _this._

For one thing, there was far more _smoke._ Cigarette smoke, cigar smoke… _other_ smoke. He supposed that came with being in a bar with no windows, much less _open_ windows. Coughing subtly, he followed Crowley down to the bottom of the staircase where a tall gentleman in a cheap suit with a pistol tucked into his pocket was standing, arms crossed over his chest.

Miles had certainly never seen… _that_ at Sweetings, nor at the Rules, and _certainly_ not at the Ritz. Thus, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut and let Crowley do the talking.

“Frank! It’s been ages, hasn’t it? Last I saw you, you were still pushing orange crates for Bess upstairs.”

The young man didn’t crack a smile. He barely even moved. He simply gave a stiff nod and muttered, “A.J.”

Miles, resisting the urge to cling to Crowley’s arm, jumped when, through the door to their left, there was the sound of shattering glass and what undoubtedly was some sort of a scuffle. Rolling his eyes, Frank pulled out his pistol and stated, “Stan’s waiting for you,” before he went through the door to break up the fight. The piano music and laughter continued, even after it sounded like Frank fired (what Miles hoped were) two warning shots.

_Definitely not like the Ritz._

His tone rather gentle, likely to compensate for the tense atmosphere, Crowley murmured, “Come along, then,” and ushered Miles down a hallway to their right, away from the ruckus.

There was another door at the end of the hallway which led into an office. Sitting at a desk was a blond man, roughly the same age as Bess. He was smoking a cigarette when they walked in, their entrance causing him to get to his feet and spread his arms wide, grinning even as the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

“Little Anthony J’s finally come home! I thought Bess was pulling my leg when she said you were here. And with your brother! Why’d you never mention having a brother?”

Stan was a tall, well-muscled man; easily the sort who could be intimidating if he so chose. Thankfully, that didn’t seem to be his game. Instead, he walked over and gave Crowley a hug, mussing up his hair afterward. Crowley clapped him on the back in return before diligently attempting to fix his hair, pushing his sunglasses down his nose so as to see better in the dimly lit room.

“Ezra here was a bit luckier in life than I. He got taken in by a rich family and was sent off to Oxford. Never really had to make a name for himself,” Crowley explained as Stan sat back down. Once he was seated, Stan gestured for both of them to do the same.

Nudging Miles forward, Crowley and he both sat down in the brown leather chairs opposite Stan’s desk. Stan, after taking a drag, pulled his cigarette from his mouth and stamped it out in his ashtray.

“Oxford, eh? What brings you to New York, then? I always thought the scholarly types were loyal to British soil.”

“Well, I…” Miles tried but, for once, his voice failed him. This sort of thing certainly wasn’t his area of expertise. Thankfully, it _was_ Crowley’s.

“Ezra wants to be an _actor_ ,” Crowley explained, slouching back comfortably in his chair and smirking. “A _big_ actor. Broadway first and then the world, you know? But, you see, he needs to get his papers in order first before he can start auditioning. I thought you might be able to give him a hand.”

“His papers?” Stan asked, arching an eyebrow.

Miles blushed as Crowley conspiratorially declared, “He’s not exactly in America _legally_. We had… a bit of a _scuffle_ back in England and had to leave rather suddenly. Big mess, no time to worry about travel documents or work visas – you know how it is.”

“Oh, I do. I do know how it is,” Stan agreed, reclining back in his own chair and reaching into his pocket for another cigarette. Lighting it up, he flicked his match out and took a drag before stating, “I did try to warn you, A.J., I really did; opium means big money, but it also means a big mess if you get caught. You’re lucky you got out without a bullet between your eyes.”

Miles, turning quickly to look at Crowley, gasped out, “Good _lord!_ You never told me what you did was so… so _dangerous!_ ”

“See? At least _somebody_ in the family’s got a lick of sense,” Stan stated around his cigarette, taking another drag and blowing it out before he plucked the cigarette from his mouth. Sizing Miles up, Stan stated, “Normally I’d charge no less than $300, but for A.J.’s brother, I’ll do it for $180. ‘Cause you’re _smart_ , kid.” Pointing at Miles, Stan stated, “You keep your brother out of trouble from now on. You got that? He’s like a son to me.”

Certain that his heart was going to leap straight out of his chest at any moment, Miles nodded and breathed, “Of course. No more trouble. You have my word. Doesn’t he, Anthony?”

Pulling a cigarette from his own jacket pocket, Crowley looked up when Miles said his name, asking, “Sorry, what?”

Clutching the arms of his chair a bit tighter, Miles looked pointedly at Crowley and stated, “ _No more trouble._ ”

“Oh. Yes, of course. No more trouble. You have my word.” Arching an eyebrow, Crowley asked Stan, “Have you got a light?”

Grabbing a match from the box on his desk, Stan lit it and held it out. Leaning forward, Crowley put the tip of his cigarette to the flame before bringing it to his lips. Miles watched the entire interaction with pursed lips, only looking away when Stan addressed him again.

“I’ll need to know your full name, birthdate, and place of birth. I can fudge everything else easily enough.”

Taking a breath, Miles opted for partial honesty as he stated, “Ezra F. Crowley. February 26th, 1904. London, England.”

Stan wrote down everything Miles told him in a notepad before stating, “It’ll take me a few days to get everything together. Until then, just lay low and avoid drawing too much attention to yourself. So long as you aren’t caught someplace you shouldn’t be without any papers, you’ll be fine.”

Miles nodded and shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. He wanted to get _out_ of this place, and he _really_ couldn’t understand how Crowley could just _lounge about_ and _smoke_ as if a big man hadn’t just _shot off a pistol_ down the hall.

Crowley did seem rather nonplussed about it all – largely because he knew there were worse men in New York than Stan Houlighan and his cronies. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling a cloud of smoke, Crowley tapped the ashes into Stan’s ashtray as he said, “One more thing. Are you still selling jewelry?”

Stan arched an eyebrow at Crowley’s casual question, leaning back in his chair again.

“Depends on what you’re looking for.”

“Rings. Three of them, to be exact. They mucked up the sizing at a shop in London on a piece Ezra had commissioned before we left and there wasn’t any time to have it fixed. I told him I knew a bloke who could get him something even better. That bloke, last I checked, was you.”

Stan smirked, rapping his fingertips against the top of his desk.

“If you’ve got money, then I’ve got rings. What about the other two?”

“For me and my fiancée,” Crowley stated, blowing out another cloud of smoke, and Miles tossed a slightly panicked glance over in Crowley’s direction. _Fiancée?_ Crowley had never mentioned having some sort of elaborate backstory. What if he mucked up the details and made them both look guilty?

“You got yourself a girl?” Stan asked, blinking a few times, clearly as surprised by this development as Miles was. “Er… Not that I’m surprised, it’s just… well…”

“You thought I was partial to men?” Crowley asked, tapping off more ashes and smirking at the way Stan’s face turned red. “I don’t deny it. I just _also_ happen to be partial to women. Or, this woman in particular, at the very least. The lovely _future_ Mrs. Agatha Crowley.”

Bells were ringing rather loudly inside of Miles’ head. He was really struggling not to look as though he were about to pop.

“Well, that’s… that’s good for you,” Stan stated, fishing around in his pocket for a small set of keys before bending down and unlocking a desk drawer. Pulling it open, he tugged out a velvet-set wooden box filled with rings of every size, style, and calibre imaginable. Miles preferred not to dwell on how he came to have them. “Take your pick, then. I’ll give you a good package deal for three.”

“Ezra?” Crowley intoned, putting out his cigarette in Stan’s ashtray and gesturing to the box of rings. “Why don’t you take first pick? A promise is a promise, after all.”

Desperately hoping that his blush wouldn’t give anything away, Miles ducked his head to examine the rings, taking a deep breath as he looked over his options. He couldn’t allow himself to appear _too_ affected by all of this; he was just a bloke shopping for a ring of no emotional value whatsoever. Even the slightest twitch of his lips could give him away. But, he supposed he understood why all of this had to be done rather… _illicitly_. It wasn’t as though two men could stroll into a jewellery store and go ring shopping together.

Pursing his lips, Miles’ gaze finally settled on a gold option with a cluster of pale purple diamonds; the pattern reminded him of the rose window in a gothic cathedral. It was _gorgeous._ As he plucked it from the velvet to get a closer look, Stan grinned.

“A good choice. Fourteen karats, rose cut; the kind of ring that’ll _really_ shine under stage lights,” he mused, as if he needed to sell Miles on it – as if the sentimentality of Crowley _buying it for him_ wouldn’t already make it the most perfect ring in the world.

“It’s stunning,” he agreed, unable to take his eyes off of it and the way it sparkled even in the dimmest of light. Beside him, a small grin tugged at Crowley’s lips as he watched Miles over the top of his sunglasses. Sitting up, he peered down into the box himself.

“Right. I suppose I’ll take… these two,” Crowley declared, plucking a thicker emerald ring set in silver and a thin, delicate diamond ring with jade inlays, also set in silver. Stan named his price and Crowley, pulling out several rolls of cash, paid him for the rings and for Miles’ documents.  

Counting the money, Stan leaned back in his seat and smirked.

“Whoever this Agatha is, she’s a lucky girl,” he stated.

Miles, still blushing, agreed, “Oh, yes. She’s very lucky indeed.”

Fixing his sunglasses and pocketing the three rings, which Stan had placed in a small bag of blue velvet with a drawstring, Crowley rose to his feet and reached across the desk to shake Stan’s hand.

“Always good doing business with you. We won’t keep you any longer, of course; I know how busy you are.”

“Never too busy for an old friend,” Stan stated, shaking Crowley’s hand and exhaling a puff of smoke. “Come back on Thursday; I should have your brother’s papers sorted out by then.”

Nodding, Crowley started toward the door, arching an eyebrow and looking back when Miles didn’t move to follow, asking, “Ezra?”

“Oh!” Jumping, Miles got to his feet, sheepishly reaching out to shake Stan’s hand, as well. “Right, sorry. So nice to meet you, Mr. Houlighan; it truly is a lovely establishment that you have here. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Forget about it,” Stan stated, shrugging, and Miles blinked for a moment, baffled.

“Sorry?”

“He means ‘no problem’, Ezra,” Crowley cut in, taking Miles by the arm and steering him toward the door. Back at his desk, Stan snorted out a laugh as the two walked out of his office.

As they ventured back down the hall and toward the stairs, Miles hissed, “ _The future Mrs. Agatha Crowley?_ It might have been nice to know about your engagement, _o’ brother of mine._ ”

“It was all very sudden,” Crowley quipped in return, looking down at him. “I could _hardly_ just ask him for _wedding rings_ for _me and my brother,_ could I? Don’t you see how that might look a bit _peculiar?_ ”

Blushing again, unable to argue with his logic, Miles muttered, “A warning still would have sufficed. What if he’d asked me follow-up questions about you and your _fiancée?_ ”

“Then you could have told him about how you escorted my lovely bride-to-be to watch my victory at Goodwood,” Crowley stated, smirking. “It wouldn’t have been a lie.”

His eyes widening when Crowley referenced that silly stunt that he and Agatha pulled to get into the driver’s section at the race, Miles gave Crowley’s arm a playful little swat, hissing, “You _silly cad!_ ”

Winking, Crowley gave Frank a wave as they reached the staircase, nudging Miles to go up ahead of him. Miles, not wishing to have his back to a large man carrying a pistol, happily obliged.

“Besides,” Crowley stated once they were out on the street again, hands in his pockets, walking toward the nearest intersection so they could catch a cab back to the brownstone, “If the thought of me giving a ring to Agatha makes you jealous, _you_ could always give it to her.”

Miles, fumbling for words for a moment, finally managed to gasp out, “I am not _jealous._ Why on Earth would I be jealous? And of Agatha, no less! What an impossibly silly notion.”

“You want me to give her the ring, then?” Crowley asked, arching an eyebrow, and he smirked when Miles huffed quietly at his side.

“No. _I_ will give it to her.”

Chuckling, Crowley nudged Miles with his shoulder and tossed him an affectionate little grin. Miles, still blushing, tossed him one right back.

* * *

Late that night, well past sunset and verging upon early morning, Miles found himself tangled up in soft white sheets and a comfortable blue duvet, his head pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder as a candle flickered on the bureau. He was both spent and utterly content; such tended to happen after a night of fully enamoured lovemaking. His damp curls still clinging to his forehead, he traced patterns delicately on Crowley’s chest, watching the way that the candlelight made the purple diamonds in his ring glitter and shine. That was ultimately what started the evening’s lovemaking, after all. They had dinner (which Ms. Crawford had kindly cooked for them) and it was over a dessert of chocolate soufflé that Crowley decided it would be a good idea to properly _get down on one knee and propose._

Miles had not been at all prepared. After all, he’d already been considering them as good as married; he was in the process of changing his last name and it wasn’t as if they could have a real ceremony. But that hadn’t stopped Crowley from getting to his feet, under the guise of clearing away the dishes, only to come back and drop down on one knee in front of Miles’ chair, the ring clasped in his fingers.

Miles had nearly choked on the champagne he was drinking.

_“I thought you deserved to have it done the right way,”_ Crowley had mused, grinning cheekily as Miles’ cheeks turned pink and a fresh wave of tears filled his eyes. _“Miles F. Maitland, will you do me the honour of being my secret husband?”_

Miles, flabbergasted for the second time in as many days, had awkwardly blurted out, _“My middle name is Henri, actually.”_

Then he’d pounced on Crowley, sending champagne flying and both of them sprawling onto the floor. Several hours later, they were both perfectly cozy, wrapped up in each other’s arms, in their own bed, in their own house.

To Miles, it all still felt terribly like a dream that he was terrified to wake up from.

Crowley, his arms wrapped securely around Miles, pressed a kiss to the top of his head. When a breeze wafted into the room through the open window, he reached down to pull the coverlet more securely around them both. Letting his hand fall to comb his fingers through Miles’ curls, his own ring agleam in the candlelight, he asked, “You’re thinking so loudly that I can practically hear it. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Miles stayed quiet for a moment longer, content to just listen to Crowley’s heart beating beneath his ear. Eventually, he shifted in Crowley’s arms to meet his gaze, whispering, “This all just feels… a bit too good to be true. A bit too… _easy._ ”

Furrowing his brow, his fingers stilling in Miles’ hair, Crowley insisted, “It’s hardly been _easy,_ angel. I certainly wouldn’t call evading police persecution and fleeing across the Atlantic on a cargo ship _easy._ ”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Miles sighed, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder again, hesitating before trying to explain himself further. “It’s more like I… well, I don’t understand why it should end this way, I suppose.”

“End what way?” Crowley asked, a frown still playing at his lips.

Curled up in his arms, Miles whispered, “Happily.”

There was something in that one simple word, and the fact that Miles clearly felt he didn’t deserve to feel that way, that was uniquely heartbreaking. Why _shouldn’t_ he deserve a happy ending? He’d certainly made a few mistakes in his lifetime, but they were nothing in comparison to the things that Crowley had done to get where he was in life. Miles had done nothing to deserve the fate that had very nearly befallen him, just like so many others didn’t deserve it before him. There was never anything wrong with falling in love, regardless of who it was with. The sooner the world came to accept that, the better off everyone would be.

“Darling,” Crowley whispered, delicately combing his fingers down through Miles’ hair and letting them settle in the curls at the nape of his neck. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t talk as if you don’t deserve to be happy. You _do._ ”

Meekly, still watching his ring sparkle in the glow from the single candle, Miles asked, “Do I…? Because it doesn’t feel that way. I just… _Why_ should I deserve it? Why should _I_ get to be happy when so many people aren’t? Charlie Harker lost everything, and there’s no telling where he is now; I’d be willing to bet that it’s nowhere good. And… and even _Tiger,_ I suppose.”

Crowley make a face and a noise of displeasure but Miles shook his head, shushing him and pressing on.

“I mean it, Crowley! You can’t look me in the eye and possibly tell me that he’s _happy_ with the way that his life has turned out. He’s a has-been racecar driver in an unhappy marriage with a wife whom he doesn’t love. That’s how it ends for _so many_ people. Either they get caught, like Charlie, or they choose to live a lie, like Tiger. How is that _fair?_ ”

Frowning, Crowley stared down at Miles for a long moment before insisting, “Nobody ever said life was fair, Miles – but that doesn’t mean _you_ should spend your life feeling miserable and guilty just because other people are unhappy. If everyone did that, nobody would _ever_ be happy. What sort of a world would that be? It’s already a miserable enough place half-the-time; let’s not make it worse for ourselves, yeah?”

Shifting their bodies so that he could hover above Miles, Crowley tenderly caressed his cheek, sweeping his fingers out to cup it afterward.

“I know that you feel guilty – over Charlie especially. But Charlie Harker, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing now… It sounds like he cared about you, before all hell broke loose. I don’t think that changed overnight, and I certainly don’t think he’d want you to make yourself _miserable_ over something that was utterly out of your control. Everything that’s happened is that rat _Simon Balcairn_ ’s fault – and he’ll get what’s coming to him, I promise you that, be it on the earthly plane or… _elsewhere_.”

Biting his lip, Miles lifted a hand to cover Crowley’s at his cheek, tenderly sweeping his thumb over the ring poised over his left hand. He didn’t know what he did to deserve all of this, but… perhaps Crowley was right. By dwelling on the negatives, he was squandering the good moments that he had been blessed with.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes with a sigh. “You know how I get. All up in my head and… _emotional_. I wish I could help it, but I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Don’t apologize,” Crowley sighed in return, bending to press his forehead against Miles’ before turning his hand over to tangle their fingers together. “I love you, emotional bits and all. I just want you to be _happy._ Can you try that? For me?”

Cracking the smallest of smiles, Miles peeked an eye open to gaze up at Crowley, his expression openly affectionate.

“Being happy with you around?” he asked, sighing and closing his eye again, lifting his free hand to coil his fingers into the messy strands of Crowley’s red hair. “Dearheart, I don’t think that will be too terribly difficult…”

Chuckling quietly, Crowley all too happily allowed his head to be guided down for a sweet, loving kiss. In the candlelight, the rings that lay poised upon their fingers sparkled like stars; they sparkled like the promise of a better tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking forever on this update! A lot has happened since the last chapter. I graduated with my undergraduate degree AND moved out of my parents' house, so you could kind of say I'm a new woman. Anyhoo, the last few chapters hopefully won't take quite as long! I promise, more fluff lies ahead than angst. Until then, ciao. <3


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